Do you believe in miracles?

How bout one youth baseball team playing bad baseball , but slightly better than their opponent?

That, we got.

Despite many, many called third strikes at the plate, the D-Boys managed to best the Giants last night 8-7 in extra innings! The Giants gave up a lot of walks.

Our star pitcher continued his playoff role as a cryer, but last night, he was crying for his team to show heart and to keep battling. But he didn't just let his mouth do the talking. He pitched tremendous baseball and scored the winning run.

I'm happy for the win, but we were very lucky last night. We're a good little team when we have it together, but last night, we caught a break.

There were many base-running errors despite D.G. and I working with the team on nothing but running the day before. That is annoying.

But despite the win, and the overall entusiasm of the team, I finally saw a glimpse of "The parent" that everybody warned me about. You know, the one who mettles and screams and stuff.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been, but a parent pulled his kid away from a team pow-wow as Coach Mike was talking and said "I don't want you listening to them (coaches). You listen to me from now on..."

The kid went on to hit two batters in one inning.

Hey, whattayagonnado?

Tonight, the D-Boys go at it again, without the arm of our star pitcher, who has pitched as many innings as he is allowed this week according to the rule book.

Destiny gets away...for now

Yesterday, the beloved D-Boys were supposed to have a date with destiny.

But, like most of the women they will try to woo in a few years, destiny got away.

Cloudy skies and the threat of tornadoes caused the league's Commish to scratch our playoff game against the Giants. Sure, there was terrible lightning in the morning, but the evening skies were bone-dry. However, when I ranted and raved about the game being cancelled, D.G. sniffed, fingered his moustache and passed on some words of wisdom.

"Weary is the Commish who sends lawyers' kids to bat in a chain-linked backstop with aluminum bats when a storm threatens."

Truer words, D.G.

As a writer, most people would only want me to play ball in a chain-linked backstop with an aluminum bat while lightning crashed around me.

However, since we were all at the field, we tried to teach the kids how to run the bases properly. There was more than a few games that would have ended with smiling Dodgers if they did the basics such as running to a base without looking to see where the ball is, sliding, and just plain knowing how to make proper strides. (They all run like they're John Wayne, arms swaying out to the sides like windshield wipers.)

Ability to run aside, listening to the first base coach, D.G. is the most important thing. He is the eyes. He is the brains. To do what he tells you is to never worry about making a mistake. Some kids finally got that after we ran their legs off. Others did not.

We're supposed to play tonight. We'll see.

Maybe if destiny tries to run away tonight, The D-boys will know how to run after her.

Dodgers beat Cardinals, Pope takes back red hats!

That's right.

The Pope--a huge baseball fan for those who didn't know it--was so pissed that the Cardinals lost to the Chestnut Hill Dodgers in this past Saturday's playoff game, 10-3, that he took back their funny little red hats.

"This, I cannot believe," said the Pope who watched the game in what he calls his "man cave" in the Vatican via satellite feed. "The Dodgers are little boys. We're Cardinals. The Dodgers should be crying like they were after playing the Pirates right now."

I misssed the game. I was at a regatta on the Cooper River and left the team in the hands of the other two able coaches.

I should point out that there are three other coaches.

My anxiety over the D-Boys was finally relieved when D.G. finally responded to texts that just said "Score?" every 20 minutes after the game was over. I was happy about the score, but absolutely bursting with pride over Levi "The Jedi" who, according to D.G.'s message, has gotten rid of his weak, light saber-esque swing so much that he hit the ball into the outfield!

"He said he wished you were there to see," D.G.'s message went on. I gotta tell you, I got a little choked up. But I didn't cry, damnit.

I can't wait to see them Tuesday.

There is no crying in baseball...

just absolute girlish-like sobbing.

Last Wednesday, the Dodgers lost a heartbreaker to the Pirates. We lost by one run, which was given up in the bottom of the sixth inning...with two outs.

And for the first time, truly, all year, the Dodgers didn't look like a team full of suburbanites hopped up on too much of their mommies' lil' helper.

They cheered. They supported each other. They even talked a little trash since they were winnning the whole game.

Then they cried.

Well some of them did, and it was embarrasing.

One kid, our star pitcher, started to cry on the mound as his father--our head coach--pointed a stern finger and his direction while uttering "Don't do it. Don't you dare do it."

He did it.

And when he was still crying after seeking sympathy from--geez get this--his little sister, his dad said, "Son, it was a tough loss. But the team played well and this just makes you stronger and tougher and wanting to win even more."

The response: "Nawww...snifff...it...snifff....dawsn't.....bwahhhh....."

However, Willie, who you have all become familiar with for complaining about various joints, ligaments and all around wussy-ness, bit his lip like a man, held it together, and earned even more respect from me than when I told him he would like Blue Crush more than Point Break because the whole movie was about hot chicks in bikinis surfing instead of dudes surfing and he said, "Sweet."

As much as I could have done without the tears, I was glad to see that the kids--win or lose--actually gave a damn about the game, and playing well for themselves and their teammates.

But, this is a double elimination playoff, so the D-girlies live to fight another day. Saturday to be exact.

Weather calls for dry weather. I hope it stays that way.

What can I say?

Back during the cold March nights, D.G. and I would discuss the trials and tribulations of being first year little league coaches.

One night, while thoughts of warm breezes, sunflower seeds and the smell of grass ran through our heads, D.G. fingered the end of his moustache, leaned in across the table covered with empty beer bottles and proclaimed that we were going to get into the playoffs, by god.

He was right.

Turns out, every team makes the playoffs in this league, even the D-Boys who finished the season with a 5-7 record.

On Monday, we faced the Giants and beat them 20-6 in our first playoff game. Although I may not agree with the "everybody gets a trophy" mentality that allows losing teams to contend for a championship, it was hard not to be overjoyed for some of the Dodgers, who, it turned out, needed this one game--this extra game that the playoffs gave them--to finally coordinate their spastic bodies and hit a baseball.

Marquis, who once missed a game because he lost a battle of wits with a mechanical pencil (beware the leads of May, especially if it's in your pants pocket) got a hit! He smiled the entire time he was running, wind whistling through the space in his grin from his chipped tooth.

Levi, who has swung the bat like he was warding off harm with a light saber like a Jedi, (alright, maybe more like Dark Helmet than a Jedi) finally started swinging through the ball and got a hit.

And here's where the one extra game, the playoff game, was good for me. All season long, I worked with Levi on his swing with advice such as "drive through the ball." and "Open your hips." and "Coil. Pivot. Pop" These words meant absolutely nothing to him. I finally realized that and simply told him that he swings the bat like a light saber and that's not good. I told him "No star wars swings." This, he understood. It worked. He hit the ball.

Tonight, we face the Pirates, who as you remember are like Somali pirates, not fun-loving parrot -owning pirates, who plunder runs and then zip away into the night. It'll be a tough game.

I hope we win, but not for a chance to win a trophy because really I don't think we deserve it, but for the chance to have one more game in which the kids play, improve, and have fun.

Because that, they do deserve...and after a season of pulling kids off fences and cringing whenever they threw a bat towards an umpire, so do I.

Custer Wins Little Big Horn!

That's right.

The boys in orange turned out to be true Dodgers, stepping out of the way of another loss and coming from behind to beat the Braves 2-1.

And I thought I was going to have to post a picture of an Indian scalping a frontiersman. Instead, we can soak in the gory magnificence of this fine piece of art.

Now, I don't want to take too much credit for my managerial skills. However, I will do more than hint at them.

All season, D.G., Mike (our head coach) and myself have been letting some kids who are not necessarily good pitchers...ok, some have never pitched before...take the hill to start the game. It's great to give the lil' guys a chance to chuck, but, the result has often been a huge deficit that the Dodgers have had to crawl back from right from the first inning.

So, on Saturday, I told Mike to throw our best pitcher first to keep the Dodgers from deflating and losing enthusiasm before the second inning. He agreed. Our best pitcher threw 3 innings, giving up two runs (much better then the 5 or so usually given up by the second). The Dodgers stayed sharp and upbeat and I have to believe even if we lost, the kids would have had fun because they wouldn't have been blown out.

So what does new strategy mean? Well, two things. First, that we should start our stud like every baseball team since the game was invented. Second, D.G. wasn't at the game. He was closing on his new house while our steal of a player, Ethan, closed out the last three innings. So, without his mind, we won. I heard rumblings from the beat reporters and that some coaches are talking about sending D.G. down to the minors.

Alright, they're my rumblings. But I don't pull the strings. Yet. No need to give up moustache wax yet, broham.

The infield was once again superb, looking like pros. The outfield, however, continues to react to fly balls like sloths. They just don't move for anything. Ever.

If the Dodgers can start swinging bats with arms instead of wet noodles, we might be on to something here.

But that can wait till next game. Till then, I'm just going to enjoy the lingering scent of my victory cigar on my fingertips, and the taste of my victory Sam Adams Summer Ale on my lips.

Meet the Mets, meet the Mets, step right up and greet the Mets

...as they beat the bejesus out of your baseball team.

In a game that featured many webgem-like plays by the Dodgers, they fell to the Amazin's 9-0.

The score doesn't show it, but seriously, it was a defensive clinic.

Our first basemen, Raheem, who once tripped over the bag in grand Don-Knots fashion trying to make a routine put-out, had no less than 4 put-outs Wednesday, including catching a screaming line drive. Just to show off his new sure- footedness, he tagged first base anyway.

The Dodgers are nothing if not thorough.

I say this without any exaggeration:

If, in fact, a baseball was the size of Mr. Mets' head, the Dodgers would still find a way to miss striking it with a baseball bat. Look at him. He's daring you to take a swing. Lousy son of a ...

However, the morale has continued to improve. The Dodgers hustled on and off the field. They did not get down on themselves. They seemed to be playing baseball, and liking it. I'm a happy coach.

As much as I enjoyed the defensive prowess, what made my day was seeing the chipped-tooth grin of Marquise bounding towards the field in Dodger orange. We lost him due to an unpleasant incident with a mechanical pencil for one game, and was told by his mother that he would not be playing anymore because he was acting up in school.

When I told him I was glad to see his finger was better, and that he must be behaving since his mom was letting him play, he puffed out his chest and said "I'd play anyway. My mom don't tell me what to do."

He then looked over his shoulder, twice, to make sure she didn't hear him while she sat in the bleachers.

Saturday we take on the Braves. Pray the photo that accompanies that blog entry isn't the scalped head of some poor frontiersman.

Pirates attack!

Last Sunday, the Dodgers were so whiney, so miserable, that I began to wonder if I cared more about being at the ballyard than they did. And, if that was the case, why the hell was a I there?

But on Wednesday, as D.G. and I pulled into a parking spot, I almost went blind due to the amount of bright orange Dodger jerseys that were dashing in front of me, playing catch, swinging bats...and smiling.

The Dodgers were ready to play some ball. The Dodgers had pride. The Dodgers had heart.

The Dodgers had only one run the entire game.

We lost 9-1.

Those heartless Pirates took our bats hostage and there were no Navy snipers in suburban Philadelphia to rescue them. We just couldn't get a hit all game. However, not one out was caused by a thrown bat, which was a nice, calming change of pace for the umpire, who also noticed that the Dodgers, although magnificent losers yet again, were a different team.

"Damn, baby, when I got to the field and saw those orange uniforms, I was like "oh no baby, duck and cover"," said the umpire. "But these boys look so much better, better attitude, better attention. Glad to see it, baby."

Baby was happy to see it too.

Injury update:

Marquise: the only kid to catch a ball in Sunday's massacre is on the DL after injecting himself in the finger with a mechanical pencil. When will baseball get serious enough to keep these substances out of the game, or at least out of boys' pockets business end up?

Willie: famous for uttering "This is Wilie's house!" after tagging a kid out at the plate in game 1, showed us exactly where Willie's house is this past Wednesday.

An assisted living facility.

The boy made the best throw of his life to second on a steal attempt, only to shout at the coaches after we congratulated him, "I'm not throwing like that again, it hurts my back!" He then yelled for his mother to massage him when they got home. He then complained about his shoulder, then his, ankle. He then drifted off to sleep behind the plate, awoke suddenly, and screamed "Damn Jerry's! I'll get you but good!"

These kids crack me up...
...it just takes a few days for my blood pressure to settle down.

Shrill of victory, agony of the feet

This past weekend was, well, we'll call it something.

On Saturday, the Dodgers came back from a 5 run deficit in the bottom of the 6th inning (we only play 6) to beat the Cardinals 12-11, showing that within their little Dodger bodies beats the hearts of lions.

They hit the ball much better than the first game, and showed enough discipline to lay off bad pitches and get walks, which is how we won the game. Unfortunately, some of our players finished their mighty swings without their bats, sending them flying into the backstop in the direction of an increasingly pissed off umpire. Automatic outs killed us for bat throwing. But as a coach, I'm finding the silver lining. My team is throwing bats...but they throw them really well. It's nice that they can throw something.

I was very proud of the Dodgers and they were proud of themselves, running what I have come to realize is some kind of league tradition victory lap around the bases while shrieking. The shrieking is not traditional. But I couldn't have been happier.

And to think I started the day off cursing suburban Philadelphia baseball because I couldn't get a coke from the snack stand. A hot dog was not meant to be eaten with a bottle of water, or worse, a cold bottle of green tea.

"We don't serve carbonated beverages," said the mother working the stand. When I inquired if, perhaps, I was in Russia, she glared at me with a look that said "Carbonated beverages are bad for kids. I can't believe you don't know that."

Well, I know that god damn nuclear-orange Cheetos ain't good for anybody, but there they were, mingling with some kind of organic snack mix on a wire rack.

Then came Sunday.

The Dodgers were completely flat for the entire game, losing horribly to the Braves. We only scored one run. We continued to attempt to knock the backstop down with Thor-like bat throws towards a new, increasingly pissed off umpire.

And of course, the footwork. One player was called out at second base to end an inning because he didn't keep his foot on the base between pitches. (There's no leading) And our firstbaseman tripped over the bag while routinely backing up towards it to catch the on-target throw that would have been a rally-killing out. (In fairness, I have seen paid professionals trip over their own feet.) Aside from that, they just didn't make any effort to get to the ball, happily letting it roll by them, between them, or to drop right in front of them. With the exception of right fielder, Marquise. The kid never played ball before. Ever. And he caught a towering fly ball perfectly. The smile on that chipped-tooth face of his was inspiring.

But even though the game was called early (The league has a "two-hour rule" that is some kind of euphoric term for "Your team sucks, so get them out of here and hang your head in shame") the Dodgers were stoic. Actually, they could have cared less. They had no problem with losing. The complaints after the game, to a man, was that they were tired.

Sounds like they could've used a coke.

Six saddest words in the English language...

are "No game on account of rain."

These words haunt you as a baseball player, fan, and as I'm finding out, as a coach.

Last time I heard them I had made the six hour drive home from Philly to Boston for a Red Sox game with family and friends. We stood in the bleachers for an hour, hoping they would play the game, especially since it would be the only time we could see a game together. Finally, those god-awful words were shouted out trough the PA system, and no amount of beer could take the pain away.

Though I tried.

And today, those five words were communicated through an email as I sat at my desk. The Dodgers will have to wait till Saturday to dance, wrestle, spit gum out at their feet, step in gum, and for a short amount of time, play baseball.

So, without a new game to report on, I'll tell you my favorite part of our first game, which was a 5-3 loss.

In the middle of a bunch of things going wrong with hilarious consequences, such as D.G.-- who is a coach-- lending his cup from high school (why it's still in his gym bag I have no idea) to our stand in catcher, leading to the kid looking like that weird dancing guy in that Madonna video "Justify My Love" or the pitcher who came off the mound, was sent to center field and asked D.G. "where is center field?" was a piece of baseball perfection.

A Met batter hit a ground ball through the infield to center field. A Runner was coming around the bases and heading for home. Our center fielder, who usually doesn't throw well, made a perfect throw to our cut-off man. He in turn spins around and throws a frozen rope to our catcher who, an inning earlier, couldn't catch a cold at first. Not only does he catch the ball, but he holds onto it when the runner tries to slide into him.

With a shout and fist pump worthy of the big leagues, the umpire calls the runner out. The crowd, and by crowd I mean a few mothers (one missed the play because she was telling another kid not to touch something) went wild.

But here's the best part. The catcher, whose name is Willie, whips his mask off, strolls away from the plate towards the bench and says "This is Willie's house!"

I'm not one to encourage gloating on the field, but between you and me, it was the greatest thing ever.

Too bad Willie's house is under 3 inches of water.

Opening Day

The bases are jammed. The umpire calls ball four, and the base runners all advance. When the man on second becomes the man on third, I lean out of the coach's box and to tell him how I want him to step off the bag after every pitch, you know, dare the catcher to throw down, maybe throw the ball into left field, leading to a run, which will tie the game.

But he's wiggling his hips, shoving his index fingers in the air, and singing, literally, "do...do... doooby... dee."

After the vein in my forehead starts pulsing, I have a moment of realization: I am a first-year youth baseball coach.

Saturday was the first game for my team, the Dodgers, and we lost 5-3 to the Mets. No worries. I didn't decide to become a coach to yell and scream at 11-year olds that winning is the only thing that matters. I did it as a way to give back to the game I love...and to make up for over 20 years of drunken debauchery.

My buddy, D.G., who coaches with me (under the watchful eye of a "head coach" since we're new) didn't do it to yell at kids either. He just got married, so, as a single guy, I'm assuming he did it to have an excuse to get out of the house...oh yeah, and to give back to the game he loves.

Here are the highlights that were sent into the commish of the league, who asked us to report the score, and the name of the players who hit home runs.

Here's the response:

Like a client of the Jacob F. Ruth Funeral Director that sponsors them, The Dodgers were put on ice in their home opener, losing 5-3 to the Mets.

There were no home runs to report.

In fact, there are no hits leaving the infield to report for either team. Honestly, the hit that had the most impact during the whole game came in the first inning when our catcher got hit between the legs, went cross-eyed, and keeled over. Turns out that he didn't have a cup on. Turns out nobody on either team had a cup, except to hold their juices and waters.

In other words, a great time was had by all.

And it's true.

Bring on the Braves.