Topic 3: The Trophy Case
November 15, 1999
6:01 p.m.
 When I was twelve years old, I was a pretty good baseball player. I played shortstop and second base. I pitched some. I hit leadoff, and once, almost (but not quite) managed to hit one out of the park. My dad was my little league coach. We were the Giants. He played me in centerfield once as I remember it. He had a rule of thumb that he wouldn't let any pitcher go more than three innings because he wouldn't risk blowing out a kid's arm. That self-imposed rule resulted in him taking me off the mound one game even though I had a no-hitter going. At the time, I'll admit I was pretty steamed. I remember that among the last games of my last Senior year regular season, we beat the dastardly Reds and I made something like 11 out of the 18 put-outs in the field myself -- including throwing the other coach's son out on a ground ball to second for the last out. The Reds were undefeated before then, and this was a pretty big deal. I can still see my dad jumping up in the air with a clip board in his hand, his green Camp Taylor jacket on, and a Giant's cap pushed down over his head. He was really a great coach. When the year was up, I was named to the All-Star team, the group that gets to play in the earliest rounds that eventually end up in Williamsburg for the Little League world series. I think each All-Star team gets something like 15 players, so needless to say, I was really pleased with myself. We practiced a few times. The All Stars were coached by the management team of the Reds. They were nice enough dads, I guess, but I didn't like them near as much as my coach. Anyway, time came for our first game. We faced a team from Black Ridge (I think). I remember their pitcher was a big guy who threw the baseball about as hard as I can remember any kid throwing it, specifically including Billy Williamson, a gangly tall kid from our league who was Nuke Laloosh before Kevin Costner ever dreamed of Bull Durham. But that was okay. I owned Billy Williamson. I was sure I could hit this kid. Turns out that the coaches weren't quite so confident. I started the game on the bench. The other shortstop on the team was the coach's son, but that was okay by me because to be quite honest, he was a better shortstop than I was. Personally, though, I thought I should have been playing second base. But, hey, I'm biased. I don't remember who the second baseman actually was. It was all very exciting, though. I remember throwing the ball around to warm up. I remember cheering for the guys. But we were behind something like 4-2 when I finally got in the game, in right field. That's right, just call me Lucy. I did manage to catch a fly ball out there, so it wasn't all that bad. We were down by the same score when I finally got my chance to hit. "Get a hit for us, Ronnie-boy," I can still remember the coach telling me as I went up there. I remember he was wearing a faded maroon shirt. I don't know why I remember that, but I do distinctly. My heart was beating wildly. I was leading off the inning, and I stood at the side of the batter's box, watching the big kid on the mound uncork pitch after pitch. Up close they sounded like freight trains. I looked around. The stands were filled with parents, all getting nervous and everything. I don't know why, but I suddenly didn't feel right. It was a cool day, growing toward evening. The sun was setting, and there were trees blocking the natural light. I may be wrong, but I think they had turned on the field lights. The catcher threw the "coming down" to second, then the pitcher took the mound, and it was time I thought the first pitch was high. But I must have been wrong because the umpire yelled "Strike one!" Maybe it was because I had shut my eyes or something, I don't know. I stepped out of the box, and then back in, digging in. I gripped the bat more loosely, reminding myself of Ernie Banks and how he used to say he held it so loosely all the way until he swung. If it worked for Mr. Cub, it would work for me. The next pitch was obviously high and wide. "Strike two!" yelled the umpire. Perhaps I was wrong again. But now I felt my chest freeze up. For about the first time on a playing field of any kind, I wasn't feeling really confident. Okay. Time for truth. Bottom line: I was afraid. I had made errors before, and been upset. Once, when I was pitching, I walked so many batters that one of the kid's mothers yelled "Look at the mitt, Ron!" (I subsequently straightened up right there on the mound and made a big point of gazing directly into my own mitt. It broke the crowd up, but did nothing for my control). Those times I was mad, or upset, or whatever. But I had never truly been afraid before. But when I stepped into the box, I knew there was no way I was going to swing at the next pitch. Every moment of the pitcher's wind up I was praying to the powers. Please let it be a ball. In the end, though, I struck out on three pitches without raising my bat off my shoulder. I remember being embarrassed. It was a very long, very surreal walk back to the dugout. I sat down, still wearing my helmet. The coach walked up to me then, his face as red as his shirt. He knelt over and put his face close to mine. It got all big and fish-eyed, you know? Like it was reflected off a balloon. "What's the matter with you, Ron," he said. "Can't you even hit straight pitching?" I was completely stunned. I remember mumbling something like, "I thought it was high," but I really don't know what I said. Then the coach walked away and that's the last I remember. Except that we lost, and that was the end of my official little league career.   I learned a lot from playing sports. I learned how to compete. I learned that when you don't try real hard, you don't usually win. I learned that there are people who lose their cool at inappropriate times, and that they usually do themselves greater disservice than anything else (the coach who yelled at me was a good man who just lost his cool at an inappropriate time). I learned how to lose - well, at least I learned that you do occasionally lose, and that when you do, life goes on and it really behooves you to get up and dust yourself off. I learned that games are better when you have fun, and that it's is possible to have fun even when you lose. I learned that I didn't want to pay the price it took to play sports at the college level, and that I wasn't really good enough anyway. Kids don't need trophies. They don't need ribbons for trying. Kids need parents that are active in their lives, and that tell them to try their best. And when things go wrong, they need parents that are there. If people want to give everyone ribbons, fine. But I think the current trend is just a bunch of adults making themselves feel superior for being so caring. Kids keep score. Kids know who's good and who isn't. They don't need adults patronizing them - and they won't learn anything if they do. Don't get me wrong, though. I picked up my share of trophies along the way. Besides being a baseball all-star once, I also made an all-star team in football and my teams won a championship or two. But I never played to get a trophy. I never needed a trophy or a ribbon to let me know I had a good time. When I didn't get a trophy, I was never sore at the guys who did, and if they wanted to give me a trophy for coming in second or third, well that was okay by me, but I knew who had won. Let's face it, getting a ribbon for third is pretty danged boring. A month or two ago, we were rearranging a few things and I came upon one of those trophies, though. It was a small baseball trophy with a little guy with a bat on it. It's pretty tarnished, and was covered in dust. I looked at the bat. It was intact, a fact that made me smile. You see, back when I was just starting out my little league career, my dad coached me in another league. My team won the championship. We all got trophies. But within a couple days, mine fell off the shelf and the bat broke. I remember being pretty upset. But dad gave me his as a stop-gap, and mom and dad both said they would get the other one fixed. But somehow it never happened. The trophy read "R. Collins - Braves #1" The bat was intact. My dad's name is Robert. Many Thanks to Shannon Wendt for her award   "I've seen Casey, Ron. And you're not him." Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"If winning isn't everything, why keep score?" Vince Lombardi |
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