Even though it’s something like 27 degrees below zero this
morning, baseball season is right around the corner. Hollister
Little League’s first tryouts will be tomorrow morning, when it’s
forecast to be colder than the former planet Pluto.
Even though it’s something like 27 degrees below zero this morning, baseball season is right around the corner. Hollister Little League’s first tryouts will be tomorrow morning, when it’s forecast to be colder than the former planet Pluto.
The return of America’s pastime got me thinking about the lessons I learned on the baseball fields of my youth – especially the one that literally took my breath away.
You would think that it would be hard to hyperventilate on the baseball field, but I disproved that theory when I was 12.
As a lefty, I was the Hollister Cardinals’ first baseman that year – a rookie who just moved to town. The team had been on an incredible streak of championships before I got there and we were expected to keep up the tradition and show that I belonged.
One reason for the winning streak was a hard-driving coach who hardly ever praised us and worked us harder than a Louisiana prison chain gang. After we won a game 12-0, he’d spend 10 minutes in the dugout telling us what we did wrong. During practice, we weren’t just hit a couple of ground balls at the R.O. Hardin School fields; we were literally pelted with rapid-fire shots off the bat of that coach.
One day at practice, I must have misplayed a couple grounders because the coach subjected me to one of these machine gun groundball sessions. He would hit one, I’d try to stop it, and he’d hit another practically before I had gotten rid of the first ball. For three or four or 10 minutes – I can’t recall – I was in the firing line.
I stopped some grounders, others got through, and some hit off my leg. As the minutes wore on, I went from scared to frustrated to angry. I wasn’t going to let this guy or his baseballs get the better of me. Soon, I was diving, falling to my knees and doing whatever it took to stop the barrage. I’m guessing he wanted to see if I’d break, or quit, or cry.
I did none of those, but soon I was hyperventilating and I had to stop going for the grounders as I fought for breath. The coach finally told me to take a break, apparently impressed that my body gave out before my will did.
After that, he would still yell at me when I did something wrong, but I could tell I had earned his respect. We won the championship, and I learned that there is a difference between coaches that yell and yellers that coach. I could play for a coach that yelled. It was a character-builder that I remember to this day. Subsequent coaches said I played good defense. The coach who wouldn’t let me quit was to thank for that.
Five years after my hyperventilation, I was pitching for the Hollister ‘Balers against arch-rival Palma in the Gonzales Tournament. I could throw strikes, but I was no fireballer. Against Palma, throwing strikes meant giving up hits and runs … lots and lots of runs.
Normally, a pitcher will be lifted after giving up a few runs, but on this day, my coach apparently didn’t want to use up our other pitchers, so he left me in as a “character-builder.” He should have been honest and called it an “earned run average builder.” I took the mound for another inning and it was the same story. Hit after hit after hit, followed by more runs. I can’t recall the exact total because I blocked it out of my mind soon after it happened, but I gave up at least a dozen runs on that day.
I wanted to come out of the game due to embarrassment, but my coach wouldn’t let me. It might have been selfish on his part – why use up another pitcher in a game that was out of reach? But looking back, fighting through the challenge – even without success – did help me in an odd way. It was a privilege to play and to pitch and to represent my hometown, even if I was horrible on certain days.
Quitting would have been too easy. The next week at practice, my teammates began chanting “ding, ding, ding” when I’d throw batting practice, because that’s the sound our pitching machine would make before delivering a ball. I had to laugh, because it was funny, but I also had to prove to them next time I took the mound that I could fight back from my previous embarrassment.
Now I’m the one that will be coaching 12-year-old Hollister Little Leaguers at R.O. Hardin’s fields. I’m quiet by nature, so the yelling thing doesn’t work for me, and I prefer to accentuate the positive rather than wallowing in the negative in my post-game talks. But I still draw on the lessons I learned as a kid being pushed beyond my own expectations.
Many of today’s parents have unrealistic expectations about their children’s future athletic success. Professional sports careers and endorsement contracts probably aren’t in the cards.
But professional careers that value hard work, persistence and the ability to turn criticism into motivation are.
Adam Breen teaches journalism and yearbook at San Benito High School. He is former editor of The Free Lance.
