One man’s attempt at wrangling twelve small children provided him with plenty of lifelong memories—and all it cost him was his sanity.
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My first real “Welcome to t-ball” moment came during our third practice. By this point I had learned that my job was less coaching than babysitting, so any hope of turning these three- and four-year-olds into future major leaguers had long since evaporated. My only real goal was to survive each week with my sanity intact.
Early into practice, my third baseman had gone with her mother to the port-a-potty, so it surprised me when she began doing the familiar crotch grab/knee-buckling squirm during infield drills.
Before I could even process what was happening, I noticed a small puddle building at her feet. With a panicked expression on her face, she looked at me as if to ask “Any suggestions?” I shuffled her a few feet off the field to call her dad over, and when I looked back down she was squatting above the grass to finish the job, shorts around her ankles. She didn’t even make it to the relative privacy of the closest tree.
I didn’t approach the season as if I were Billy Martin. I understood that this was more of a babysitting gig than a true instructional endeavor. Forget fundamentals—I was more focused on avoiding any major on-field temper-tantrums.
Despite these low expectations, I spent the majority of that first practice wondering just what I had gotten myself into. My right fielder was more interested in climbing the backstop than taking infield. Two kids used their bats as swords in a spirited duel. My catcher spent half of the evening doing snow angels in the dirt.
At some point, I was left with no choice but to abandon my practice schedule and let the kids be kids. And a funny thing happened: We all started having fun.
We didn’t get much accomplished at that first practice (or at any practice, really). But slowly, the kids began to learn that dogpiling on top of a soft grounder is not an ideal defensive strategy. They began running the right way out of the batter’s box and listening for instructions as they rounded the bases. They cheered for each other after good plays.
I laugh now when I think of the lineup I created for the first game. I took the time to construct it like a real Major League lineup—high-OBP hitters at the top, big sluggers in the middle. I had mapped out inning-by-inning defensive alignments for each player, making sure everyone got plenty of playing time.
What I failed to realize was that three- and four-year-olds don’t “play positions” as much as they “wander aimlessly around the field, shuffling their feet through the dirt and only occasionally watching the ball.” My strategy shifted to simply keeping 10 players somewhere on the field after roughly two batters.
Somehow, we’re shaping into a respectable team. Baserunning mishaps are becoming less common and we’ve even turned a few outs defensively. Most importantly, the kids are having fun. I hope they are, anyway.
We have just a few games left and I feel like a teacher on spring break—the end is near and I can almost taste the freedom.
That’s an overstatement, of course. This has simultaneously been one of the best and most challenging experiences of my life. I’m lucky to have been paired with a great group of kids and a helpful, supportive group of parents.
I’m just hoping they haven’t caught on to the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing.
I became my son’s soccer coach when he was the youngest three year-old in the league, making the cut off by three days. I knew I was in for it when early into our first game, one of my players asked me what the score was, and I asked them what they thought it was. He told me they thought we scored twenty-seven goals, to which I asked if he could count that high. In seconds, I had twelve kids telling me how high they could count and then began shouting as the counted over top of each other. Coaching… Read more »