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.