There IS crying in baseball

Luckily, I set my expectations pretty low. 

When I signed on to coach T-ball to almost a dozen 4-year-olds, I joked that I only wanted one thing from my players: No crying in baseball.

It's the classic line from one of my favorite baseball movies, "A League of Their Own." 

Ray and I have said this line so many times, especially when Sawyer was a baby and we were carting him to baseball games. 

When I said that was my main goal for T-ball, I was only half kidding. Of course, I want the players to learn a little bit about the game. I don't want anyone to get hurt. And I hope they have fun. But the "no crying" rule was an easy way to encapsulate all of those things. 

And 10 minutes into our first game, we broke the rule. And which player broke it? Mine, of course. 

Our first game was rained out. So it had been three weeks since seeing any of my players or practicing with them. And Sawyer was extra excited because his grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins would be in town to watch. 

We got to the field early, and I tossed grounders to a few of the players. Sawyer was already a little wild and unfocused. He was ready to run around and goof off. 

I rolled practice balls to my players along the third-base line while the other team warmed up, too. I was surprised at how much some of their throwing had improved since our practice. When we were done, I made them all run the bases, hoping they'd remember the correct order. 

We were the home team, so we started out in the field. I got all the players into position, assigned the tallest kid to first base and took my mark as traffic director in the infield. I had planned to call out the name of a designated fielder, but when the first ball was hit, my mind went blank on their names. Four kids charged the ball, diving on it and then wrestling each other for possession. I had to pull them off of each other and remind the victor to throw the ball to first. 

Sawyer got to one of the next batted balls first. But he dropped it, and in that split second, another hungry ball hog gobbled it up. Sawyer broke into tears. 

I knew I had to act quickly and say the right thing to turn this around. I said, "Great job! You fielded the ball! And you'll get another turn." 

Not the right answer. The tears turned into wailing. 

"Sawyer, you gotta shake it off and keep playing. We'll get better at taking turns. There'll be other balls." 

Wrong answer, again. 

Sawyer flopped down on the infield grass and boohooed. 

I hoisted him up and said, "Listen, you can't pitch a fit on the field. Either pull it together or go sit in the dugout." 

Though it's not the choice I was hoping he'd make, he walked off the field. At least the game could go on. 

I told the rest of the players I would call their name and only that person could field the ball. It took a few times for them to catch on, but it worked really well after that. Getting them to throw to first was still a challenge. A few did it. Others ran the ball to first. A couple looked around like, "First, where's first?" 

Amid all this, I had to keep an eye on the kids who were playing in the dirt or trying to creep up a few feet from the batter's box. I felt sure I'd be hoarse after this hour was up. 

Finally, the last batter hit and it was our turn at offense. 

I guess you could say batting went a LITTLE better than fielding. The kids at least knew they were expected to hit the ball. After that all bets were off. A few forgot to run or ran toward second or third instead of first. One carried his bat all the way to first base. A couple charged their own hit on the field and wrestled the OTHER team for it. A couple boys "slid" into home plate, which I had to tell them is NOT allowed. 

I do think my team hit the ball better/farther than the other team. 

Sawyer batted lefty the first inning. Righty the second. 

I was stressed the whole game. (Out of the hundreds of photos my dad took … THANKS, POPS! … I'm ONLY smiling after the game was over.) But I heard lots of laughter coming from the stands, so it must've been funny if you weren't stuck in the middle of it. 

Our second go-round on defense went much smoother. I remembered most of the kids' names (there are two that I get mixed up), and there was no wrestling this time. 

We batted a second time, and the organizer leaned in and said, "This will be the last batter. Then you'll shake hands and run the bases." 

"Whoa?! It's over already?" I thought. I was filled with surprise and relief. 

And that crying tantrum Sawyer pitched on the field? He'd already forgotten about by the afternoon and was telling everyone how much fun T-ball was. I managed to contain my mocking to just an eye roll. 

Our next game is tonight. And I'm sticking by my initial goal. I'm not worried about better fielding or hitting. I'm measuring our success in tears. Or hopefully lack of them.