Last Batter

Mike Ramm

The bases were loaded, but the fielders, although they were in position, were hardly ready. One kid was wearing his glove on his head. Another was dancing the pee dance. The second baseman was drawing in the infield dirt with a stick. Derek, the Hot Shots’ best player, now stepped up to the tee. Mighty Derek! A six year old wearing batting gloves. “Last batter!” I announced.

A tee-ball game would be insufferably long without the last batter rule. There were no strikeouts for one thing. A batter was allowed as many swings as it took to hit a fair ball off the tee. Also there were precious few groundouts or flyouts. At that age kids don’t yet have the arm strength to throw out baserunners or the coordination to catch popups. Sure, every once in a while a batted ball would roll up the first base line into the glove of the first baseman who would then step on the bag, but otherwise putouts were few and far between. So when the last batter in the batting order approached the tee, the coach called out “Last batter!” The stage was then set. Once the last batter put the ball in play, no base was safe. The inning would now conclude in one of two ways: either a fielder in possession of the ball stepped on home plate ahead of the baserunners, or the last batter managed to score.

Lonnie was the base runner at third, Christina at second, and my son Alex at first. Derek smashed the ball off the tee, a hard grounder up the middle into centerfield. Everything was now a blur of commotion. Lonnie scored from third as four fielders converged on the ball in what looked to be a rugby scrum. “Don’t stop!” I shouted at Christina who had stopped at third before bolting home. Alex and Derek were still on the base path. A fielder emerged from the scrum with the ball in his hand and charged toward the plate. “Keep running!” I yelled. “Keep running!” yelled the parents from the bleachers. On and off the field, everyone was urging speed.

My son, however, was skipping. A leisurely skip. A playful skip. Derek, dreaming of a grand slam, passed Alex between second and third and scored easily albeit illegally. The fielding team headed for the dugout. The team at bat headed for the field. And Alex? Although all the world was telling him to run, Alex was skipping on home.

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The next season I was once again the coach of Alex’s tee-ball team, the Purple Pine Cones. The more advanced kids from the Hot Shots–including mighty Derrick of course–had moved up to the Coach Pitch League, but Alex was more than happy to stay at the tee-ball level. He was still a goofball, and baseball was still fun. It’s a shame that I was more of a coach to my son than I was a dad. Had I been more dad than coach, I wouldn’t have spoiled the fun the way I did.

Alex caught the popup!

No one on the team had ever witnessed a teammate catch a popup before. Only kids in the Coach Pitch League caught popups. But Alex caught the ball. He was a hero. His father, on the other hand, was a killjoy.

In tee-ball the coaches were on the field with their players, not only to keep them focused, but to instruct them in real time. So when the Purple Pine Cones took the field that fateful inning, I was in the field with them, positioning myself between the second baseman and the centerfielder. “Keep the ball in front of you,” I’d say to my infielders when the ball was rolling their way. “Don’t let the runners advance. Force out at any base.” Explaining the concept of a force out to a second grader was an effort in futility, but coaches gotta coach, even, sadly, in tee-ball.

When the popup somehow landed in his glove and stayed there, Alex, the second baseman, was as surprised as everybody else. “I caught it! I caught it!” he cried out, jumping up and down, the ball still in his glove. “He caught it! He caught it!” exclaimed his teammates. The opposing team was just as excited, and cheered from the dugout. Spectators cheered from the stands. Even the kid who had hit the popup off the tee, who had yet to be informed that he was out, was thrilled. Everyone was happy. Everyone was praising Alex’s catch.

Everyone except the coach. When I should have been high-fiving my son, I was shouting at him. “Step on second base, Alex!” I roared. “Double up the runner! Step on second!” He wanted to celebrate. I wanted him to complete the double play. So I yelled my head off. “Double up the runner! Step on second! Now, Alex, now!” Still giddy, still beaming, he turned toward me, expecting his dad to congratulate him on his miraculous catch. Instead, I pointed sharply to the base. “STEP! ON! SECOND! NOW! Alex’s smile fell. Bewildered, he did what he was told to do. He stepped on second.

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I was the coach for Alex’s team one last time. We were the Pirates, a team in the Coach-Pitch League. No one wanted to play catcher so I volunteered Alex. He pleaded with me to let him play in the outfield. I said the team needed him to play catcher. He shook his head no. “Don’t you want to be a team player,” I asked. He nodded. “Then don’t you think you should be the catcher? “ “I guess so,” he said. Before he could change his mind, I buckled the shin guards onto my eight year old son. I strapped him into the chest protector. I crowned him with the catcher’s mask. With a shaky voice he said he couldn’t see very well. I told him he’d get used to it. When I took the mound to warm up our new catcher, I took aim at a kid I hardly recognized, a kid kneeling in the dirt, holding in front of his heart a glove as tough as a callous.