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.