My last competitive at bat was my freshman year in High School. The final cut loomed over those on the bus as we travelled 25 miles Southeast to an all dirt field somewhere in East County. There are some moments in time that never seem to lose their brightness. The tiny dugout, the dirt outfield, the short backstop, and a mound that looked like a pile of dust more than a mound.
I came off the bench for one at bat. The count ran full, and I fouled off three consecutive pitches. I remember there was a runner on and I was getting excited to win this battle and secure my spot on the team. Then something happened that I’d never seen before– with the count full came a sweeping curve ball that dropped in for strike three. I was dropped from the team three days later.
That was it for my baseball career. Eighteen years later I returned to the sport with my five-year-old son. For the next twelve years I would manage his and his brother’s Little League teams. Each time I’d take them to the field I’d wonder if their last at bat would sear into their memory as my last had in mine.
My parents loved me, but as the oldest child of six, they were not well versed in how to help me become a baseball player. Kids at my school had dad’s named Rollie Fingers, Greg Nettles, and Mike Staffierii. The Varsity coach was local legend Craig Scoggins. It wasn’t a small-town team that I was trying to break into. My sophmore year a senior pitcher named Chad Hutchinson had his own two page article in Sports Illustrated. I decided if my boys wanted to play high school baseball, that I would make sure they’d be prepared to get past their freshman try out.
I didn’t buy into year-round baseball under the age of twelve. I felt playing multiple sports was better than specializing in one. We played club soccer in the fall and Little League spring and summer (All Stars). After we exited Little League, I didn’t know where to go. We followed some friends over to their travel ball team. It was a perfect fit for the first year and a half as he learned the rules and ropes of playing on a 60/90 field. He loved his experience but with 18 kids at a practice it was hard to get lots of reps. We left to another team that was run by the varsity coach of the High School my son would be attending. The reps were more frequent and more intense, and you couldn’t beat the 5-minute commute to the field.
As we arrived at the first practice I was transported back in time. There before us was the same dirt outfield, tiny dugout, short backstop, and dusty mound that left me starring at a 3-2 curveball. Nothing had changed in twenty-eight years. We had come full circle. My son was taking BP in the same right-handed batter’s box that my career died in. We live two miles from the high school we scrimmaged my freshman year.
My son never stopped playing club soccer. Now he was juggling travel baseball and club soccer commitments. Playing two sports year-round offered challenges. I started to watch his passion fatigue. Baseball practice was a chore; soccer on the other hand was a joy. As long as he was playing baseball games, he was happy. Practice on the other hand was getting intense. He was a small 13-year-old playing with fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds. His blasts– looked like bloops. When taking infield, the coaches would use all their grown man force to launch ground balls at ninety pounds of skin and bone. He would never complain in practice, but the fear in his eyes was real. After some hard conversations I realized he would never get cut from his freshman baseball team, because he would never try out. He left baseball to focus full time on soccer.
It broke my baseball heart. My wife cried. We still had my younger son to keep our hopes alive, but we weren’t prepared for this exit. His last at-bat and mine would sadly be on the same field.
A year later my oldest son is now a freshman in high school coming off his first season of freshman football and JV Soccer. In four months he’s grown three inches and even with all the soccer he’s managed to put on 15 lbs. He approaches me in November and says, “Dad I need a new infield glove and bat for high school baseball.” My wife and I look at each other confused. We asked questions and he seemed certain that he wanted to try out. I didn’t want to discourage him, but in my heart, I relived my last at bat. My son hadn’t seen live pitching, fielded a ground ball or even thrown one in over a year. Whether or not he was ready, I didn’t care; he wanted to play high school ball– I was going to help.
Santa brought the glove. After swinging a dozen bats, I used my Dicks gift cards on the lightest swinging BBCOR we could find. He still had some High School soccer season left, so he was dragging his wheeled catcher’s bag through the hallways, his soccer duffle bag in the front and his back-back on his back. Whereas a year ago the two-sport commitment was overwhelming; he seemed to thrive emotionally and physically playing both.
Yesterday he ended his freshman season in the same right handed batter’s box that mine died in. Watching a 3-2 curveball for a strike haunts me. In my mind I try to imagine launching it into left field– but the bat never comes off my shoulder. I am always cut three days later. Yesterday, my son raised his father from dead. I was never supposed to hit that ball– I could not become who I am if I had become who I wanted to be. Seeing my son launch a ball into center field, gave life to my last at bat.
Confessions of a Little League Dad 
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