Standing in the middle of a perfectly green patch of grass on a sunny Arizona spring Saturday, I held a carpet tile in my hand and thought, “What am I doing!? I can’t coach baseball.” Why had I agreed to coach a sport I never played? I glanced up as parents and kids arrived. It was obviously too late to back out now, but I could feel the anxiety like a pit in my stomach. This was going to be bad. I dropped the tile on the ground, and then quickly set out two more, finishing the row of twelve little perfect brown squares on the grass. You would think I was getting ready for the Little League World Series. In reality, it was opening day for Tempe South tee ball.
My players ran from the parking lot like a swarm of bees dressed in baseball uniforms. They flitted around like balls of energy and excitement five-year-olds seem to naturally possess in abundance. Man, remember when running was fun?
But no one described coaching as “fun.” Add to that, none of our friends liked their kids’ baseball coach. Only a lucky few got a “good” coach. So no pressure on my part. There was no way in hell I wanted to be someone’s bad coach.
Yet there I was wearing the same jersey and baseball cap as my little “Cubs.” Scott the manager. Great. I greeted my players as they arrived.
How had I become the coach? Because no one else would do it. If I didn’t coach my son’s team, he wouldn’t be able to play. I remember arguing with the league president about it. I told him, “I don’t even watch baseball!” What’s there to see? A bunch of dudes standing around waiting for something to happen? How is that a sport? I played football in high school.
But the league president was relentless. He told me, “It’s tee ball! No one is keeping score. Keep them busy and safe and you will be just fine.”
And that was it. He appointed me coach. I told Stacy the news. She replied with more confidence than I felt, “I’m sure you’ll do great.”
“Uh huh,” I said and went straight to my home office to Google how to coach youth baseball. There was no chance I could be a good coach, but I sure as hell didn’t have to be a bad one. I needed to learn as much as I could as fast as I could.
I got the roster a few days later, and noticed our first game was much closer than I wanted. I called all the parents and introduced myself, and invited them to practice the following Tuesday after school. I had just three weeks to get them ready to play. That didn’t leave me much time to learn how to get them ready to play.
Tee ball is really aimed at kids who are four or five years old, six at most. It’s a game for kids in kindergarten. I know most parents would have said, “just let them have fun,” but strangely I had understood that trap.
Why?
Because I had lived it as a kid. I had plenty of baseball coaches who focused on fun but didn’t teach me anything. And then when I got older, I rode the bench or played a few innings in right field. Not because I didn’t have physical skills or talent, but because I didn’t understand or know the game. I played football in high school because our coaches taught us how to play. Coach Sutter had said, “I don’t care if you think you know how to play football, you don’t know how to play Harrison Hawk Football.” So they taught everyone, including me, how to play the sport. By my senior year I was all-league, second-team all-state, and I earned a prized photo in the coach’s classroom along with the other players who had earned all-league honors.
Besides, people get the wrong idea about play all the time. I knew this from making video games. They think play is only about having fun. But I knew from the game studio that players have the most fun when they feel challenged. Fun also comes from developing skills. A game without challenge is boring.
We might not win any games, but my kids would at least know how to play the game. Baseball has only three skills to learn, but they’re challenging enough to create a foundation for a sport that has lasted over 100 years. The key skills are: can you throw? Can you catch? Can you hit the ball? Throw, catch, and hit. That’s pretty much it. Sounds easy, right? Yeah, easy like chess is just moving pieces around on a checkerboard.
Before we could start, however, my little tee ballers needed to learn a fourth skill. A skill no one talks about at the higher levels. It is a skill players have to learn at a young age, so they likely all forgot about it when they got older.
In order to play catch, my players would have to learn not to be afraid of the ball. Kids who are afraid of the ball try to catch with their eyes closed, and that is a great way to get hurt.
I invited every parent to help me coach and two dads stepped up, Charles and Ed. I gave them each a printed copy of the practice plan and explained my goals, simple as they were. “Keep them busy, and keep them safe. And by busy, I mean lots and lots of reps. As many as they can get. And by safe, I mean never put them in situations where they can get hurt.” The league had smart but strict rules about swinging bats and wearing helmets.
Ed said, “I like it.”
Charles added, “Where’s the bucket of balls?” The league had given us a dozen soft baseballs specially made for tee ball, but I had bought three dozen more along with a tall white bucket to hold them. Just one baseball per kid would not be enough for what I had in mind.
I’d asked the coaches to set up piles of balls along the first baseline, but as I explained, I saw a kid rear back like he was going to throw a baseball as hard as he could at another kid five feet away. The player on the receiving end wasn’t paying attention.
I turned and shuffle-ran toward the kid, holding my hands out, waving him to stop and saying, “No no! No! No!” I reached him just in the nick of time to prevent the throw, but I realized that was never going to work. There were too many kids and not enough adult attention to go around.
In that moment, I channeled the spirit of the best coach I had ever known: Coach Sutter, my high school football coach. I stood up tall, I dropped my voice and pushed. I don’t have to yell to be LOUD. “Hey!” I exclaimed so everyone could hear me. All the kids froze, and even the parents in the bleachers turned to look at me. “Players! Right here!” My stern tone would have made Coach Sutter proud. I pointed at the ground at my feet. “Take a knee,” I commanded.
To my amazement, they all did.
I said a silent prayer of thanks to the late coach, then once all the kids were at my feet, I also took a knee so I was on their level. “Look, I know you’re probably afraid of the baseball. But you don’t have to be. Watch this.” I took a ball from the bucket and squeezed it. The thing smooshed like a tennis ball.
The boys crowded in to get a good look. Then I tossed the ball up in the air and let it fall right on top of my head. It bounced away harmlessly. “They’re rubber,” I said. “It’s not going to hurt you, but you still need to be careful. Never throw a ball at someone who isn’t looking,” I told them. I made it a rule that players had to see the other player “flash some leather” (cool baseball slang for show me the pocket of your glove) before they could throw it. I made them all practice that move several times. “Flash some leather!” They would put their glove pocket up, palm forward. “That’s what it looks like to be ready to catch,” I told them. “You don’t see that, you don’t throw, got it?”
Twelve little heads nodded in unison. By then Ed and Charles had set out the piles of balls like I had asked. I pointed to the piles and told the boys, “Now, let’s learn how to throw.” My three-part plan was simple. The boys would learn how to throw, then to catch, then to hit.
For throwing, I had purchased some cheap IKEA seat cushions and tied them to the fence. This gave the boys something to aim at. They would grab a ball, stand on the first baseline and try to hit the center of the cushion twenty feet away. And as they threw, the coaches and I helped them with grip, form, and aim. With so many balls each boy got in three or four throws before we had to pick them all up and do it over again. Each kid got at least a dozen repetitions without having to worry about chasing down an errant throw or hitting another kid. They could just focus on their ability to throw where they were aiming.
I designed the drill to isolate the skills so the players could concentrate on one thing at a time. I tackled catching the same way. I called it “four zones.” Players needed to master four kinds of catches. They would have to catch a ball below the belt, above the head, to their glove side, and to their throwing-hand or backhand side. Four throws, four catches, next player. Rotate. Kids went from maybe getting one or two catches a practice to sixteen to twenty in ten minutes.
Having great drills wasn’t enough. I knew the kids would learn faster if, yes, they were having fun. So I gave them all nicknames and made sure to bring baseball cards and bubble gum to every practice. Gifts and sugar, and a cool new baseball identity. They were like pint-size superheroes.
That first practice flashed through my mind as the kids ran up, reminding me to grab the bucket of Bazooka bubble gum and set it next to the carpet tiles.
Had I done enough? Would they be prepared to play?
We were about to find out.
The kids ran to the bucket of gum, grabbed a piece, then sat on a carpet tile. I loved those squares. Everyone had a place, and everyone stayed in the game because they didn’t want to miss “jumping” to the next carpet island as their turn to bat approached.
In tee ball every player hits, and everyone reaches base. Each half-inning we would go through half the lineup, six batters. Both sides did this. Tee ball was not baseball, but an activity organized to look something like baseball. However, the first thing I noticed was that our kids actually looked like they were playing. They could throw to each other, and catch what was thrown to them.
While the other team seemed like a bunch of sugar-crazed hamsters bouncing around, our players ran onto the field like they were supposed to, and left when we called them. I started to get the feeling that our boys might be better prepared than the kids on the other team. But an inning later I got proof our kids were not just prepared, but very well prepared.
We were playing defense, with runners on first and second. The third batter hit a sharp ground ball to my son Matthew, playing shortstop. Matt (or Rocket, as his teammates called him) scooped up the ball and threw it to Charles’ son playing second base. The parents cheered when Hawk caught the ball. But he wasn’t done! Charles’ son then stepped on second, and before anyone could cheer again, he turned and threw the ball to Hammer at first, who also caught it while standing on the base.
I have this memory of there being a moment of silence, broken by Charles yelling, “Double play! Double play!” He ran up to me, pointing toward first, saying, “That was a double play!” Our parents went crazy.
Double play. The boys had turned a double play.
One hit.
Two throws.
Two catches.
Two outs.
Double play.
Of course, most of our players were excited because the adults were excited, and it was tee ball so no one was really out. The next batter came up and the kids stayed on the bases. But what a moment. I mean, this is what we taught our boys to do, right? Play catch. Was that really such a big deal?
A few batters later the inning was over, and without me having to say anything our kids literally jumped on their carpet tiles, and were ready to hit. That’s when it dawned on me. It wasn’t just the double play. It wasn’t just not being afraid of the ball. They moved, sounded, and looked like a team having fun. I had been so worried about being a bad coach, it never occurred to me I might actually be a good coach. Ed was beaming, Charles was ecstatic, and I looked at Stacy on the sideline and she smiled back. Our kids knew what to do, and they could do it when it mattered. If that’s not what good coaching produces, what does?