by Joe Jackson
LITTLE LEAGUE HEROES
by
Joe Jackson
COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Joe Jackson
All Rights Reserved
Published by DAMIME PUBLISHING COMPANY
LITTLE LEAGUE is a registered trademark of Little League Baseball, Inc.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE MELTING POT
SEASON OPENER
TURMOIL
FIRE THE COACH
WINNING THE PENNANT
PLAYOFFS BEGIN
FALLING APART
A NEW TEAM
SHOCK AND AWE
THE FAT LADY SINGS
Appendix: Break In Your Glove or Mitt Correctly
For Little League Ballplayers Everywhere
THE MELTING POT
Michael Smith held the new bat and rubbed his hands along the smooth aluminum surface. The black bat was 30 inches in length and weighed 19.5 ounces. The handle was slender, very easy to grip, tapering to a fat barrelhead. Michael wondered about the size of the sweet spot in the barrelhead. The bat certification met the new Little League composite bat rules and Michael knew he had found one of a kind. It felt just right in his hands.
Stepping back to make sure there were no objects he might accidently hit, he took a few easy swings. He knew this balanced bat would hit a baseball hard. It was very easy for him to swing and because he knew bat speed was very important he had to have it. Taking his gleaming eyes off the bat, Michael looked up and leaned towards his Mom. He gave her his best hug, then looked at the store clerk and said softly,
‘It’s a beauty and I’ll take it.”
The clerk grinned from behind the counter and said, ‘I’ll tell you what kid, if you promise to hit a home run for me, I will throw in a batting glove for you. What do you say about that?”
Michael smiled and quickly replied, “Oooh, thank you very much. With this bat I can give you my word.”
Michael had been saving as much money as he could for this moment. He had earned money helping many of his neighbors with their odd jobs and had handled his many responsibilities around his own home to earn an allowance, but in the end, he did have to count on a little help from his Mom and Dad.
He looked at his father and said, “It is a beauty, Dad. Thanks a million.” His Dad grinned from behind the store display and said, “If you hit one over the fence I will buy you the biggest pizza in town. How ‘bout that?”
“Yes sir,” Michael responded, laughing as they left the store together. Since t-ball, he had never hit a home run and today he had made a promise to do just that. He looked at the bat again and smiled. He just knew this bat could help him deliver on his word. Heck, he could already taste the pizza!
They hurried home because tonight was an important night. It was the opening night of Little League baseball. The first scheduled game was at seven o’clock. After weeks of preparation and organizing the individual Little League teams, through the spring tryouts, and the many practice sessions, they were finally ready to play their first baseball game. Coach Anderson had asked for a brief meeting a few hours before game time.
The meeting was going to be on the patio at Michael’s house. Earlier that morning Michael had asked his mother not to furnish any lemonade for the team during the meeting. She wanted to but Michael was able to convince her that the team did not need to fill up on lemonade before the start of the first game of the season.
“I just wanted to help keep the butterflies down for you and your teammates. But you are right, Michael,” his mother said. “There is probably nothing in the world that will prevent butterflies during the opening night of Little League baseball.”
Michael sat down on one of the metal chairs arranged on the patio. He was in his Cougar uniform, gray with maroon trim and maroon leggings. The maroon cap, with the maroon bill and button, was hanging from a peg on the wall. He was also wearing his new baseball shoes, with the latest molded cleat design, that his mother had surprised him with yesterday. He felt very comfortable in his uniform.
This was Little League baseball. It was baseball for the youth organized on a similar scale to the major leagues. The headquarters were in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Little League baseballs’ roots extended as far as baseball’s history itself – into the 18th century. Little League baseball had a Baseball Commissioner with a final tournament schedule called the Little League World Series. Each individual league had schedules with play-offs. The longer a team continued to win, the closer the team came to going to Williamsport.
When the town announced it was organizing the Little League season, Michael was one of the first to appear at the ballpark to register. He loved playing baseball and he could not wait to sign up. Various businesses and organizations sponsored the teams and provided the uniforms and equipment to outfit each player. On the very first day of try-outs, with almost three hundred players on the field and the different team coaches watching them carefully for selection decisions later, Michael had been frantic with the fear of going unnoticed after working his tail off to show his baseball skills.
Michael learned that later, at a special meeting, the individual team coaches had placed their bids for the players they saw and liked. Each coach had a certain number of points to bid with on the players he or she wanted. This insured that there were no cliques on any of the teams and that each team had players representing every section of town. Just like the big leagues, a team coach could also trade players to another team or “buy” players with the points he had left over.
Coach Anderson of the Cougars in the American League picked Michael. In the beginning, he was not impressed with Coach Anderson, even though the coach seemed to know a lot about baseball. Michael thought he looked different. His clothes were drab and his car a rust bucket, but after a few practice sessions, Michael realized Coach Anderson seemed to be a focused Little League baseball coach.
Michael’s dad saw him fidgeting in the chair. He asked, “Are you nervous, Michael?”
“A little,” Michael admitted.
“Don’t worry one bit about it, son. You will get over it after you see the first pitch. Even the big leaguers feel that way on opening night,” his dad said. “Come with me to the front porch so you can greet your teammates as they arrive. Is the whole team coming this afternoon?”
Michael nodded. “Coach Anderson called the meeting for four-thirty because of his work schedule. He couldn’t make it any earlier.”
“I see,” his father murmured. “What about this David Anderson fella, your coach, Michael? Where does he come from?”
“Other side of town,” Michael explained. There was not too much enthusiasm in his voice when he spoke of the Cougar coach and his father sensed it. Michael had hoped the Red Sox coach, Dusty Taylor, the former big-league outfielder, would draw him. Michael was not alone, either. Every one of the players on the field at tryouts that afternoon had wanted to play for Taylor.
“Was Anderson a ballplayer too?” his father asked as they went out on the porch.
“I think he played college baseball and had a brief stint in the minor leagues,” Michael said. “He’s never talked about it.”
“I suppose,” his father murmured, “you wanted to play with Dusty Taylor, didn’t you?”
Michael moistened his lips. In a town like Springdale with a population of just under twenty four thousand people, everybody knew Dusty Taylor, because Dusty was the only big-league ballplayer ever to come out of the town. He had been good, too. He was once up among the league’s leading hitters, and had always been a slick outfielder.
“I guess,” Michael admitted, “it might have been pretty cool playing for the Red Sox. I probably would have learned a lot more from Dusty.”
His fath
er nodded then said, “You think so. Well, sometimes the best ballplayers do not make the best coaches. Remember, whoever it is you play for Michael; always give him the best effort that you have.”
Two boys in maroon and gray Cougar uniforms were coming down the street and Michael walked to the porch door to greet them. His father touched him on the shoulder, and then went into the living room where Michael could hear him talking with his mother.
The boys coming up the walk were Jake Jones, the right fielder, and Carlos Rodriguez, the catcher. Jake was a short, stocky boy with very wide shoulders, the hardest hitting batter on the team. He had earned the fourth slot, also known as the cleanup hitter, in the batting line-up. Jake had very light blond hair and blue eyes. He chewed gum vigorously and when he saw Michael in the porch doorway, he lifted his hand and waved.
Carlos Rodriguez the catcher was also on the stocky side and a little taller than Jake. Carlos was a tanned, olive skinned boy with big, capable hands, and a great throwing arm for a young boy of twelve. Coach Anderson always shook his head in amazement when he watched Carlos throw down to second. Carlos had a gift. His natural ability to throw hard while getting rid of the ball quickly could prove to be quite an asset.
Once on the porch Jake asked, “Are we the first ones here, Michael?”
“Well, yes you are,” Michael replied, as he watched Carlos pick up Michael’s new bat and hold it in his hands while grinning from ear to ear. Jake Jones quickly sat in the porch swing and said, “I heard the Red Sox had a meeting up at Dusty Taylor’s house yesterday. They said Dusty built a regular clubhouse in his back yard and filled it with all of his baseball trophies, pictures, and souvenirs. Dusty calls it his Baseball House.”
Michael picked up a sound of envy in Jake’s voice and responded quickly, “The Red Sox aren’t going to win the pennant in Mr. Taylor’s club house, Jake. You know that.”
“I know,” Jake admitted as he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
Michael glanced at Carlos who was still holding his new bat. Carlos, who lived across town in a large apartment complex, was from a large family of seven children besides himself and his father worked long, hard hours in the railroad yards. Holding something new was not common for Carlos, the youngest of his siblings. Carlos was used to hand-me-downs.
Carlos sat down next to Jake. He was a boy who seldom smiled, a quiet, dark-eyed, black-haired boy. He was a hard, tough kid who had to deal with the peer pressure of his neighborhood to make the Little League team. Michael had heard that most of the other kids from the apartment complex often teased Carlos for playing on a Little League baseball team and Carlos had to stand up for himself. Michael figured Carlos could handle it though. If not, his siblings certainly could.
Carlos said, “Everybody’s late, Michael.”
“They’ll be along,” Michael told him. He heard Carlos start to whistle softly; then the boy said slowly,
“What do you think of Josh Miller?”
Michael looked at him. “I guess Josh is all right,” he replied.
Miller was one of the four Cougar pitchers and easily the best from what Michael had seen of him in practice sessions. Josh was from Nob Hill out in the suburbs of Springdale. Michael knew that Josh’s father owned the big Springdale Cotton Mills. The Miller family had a summer home in the mountains and a winter home in Florida. They also owned a big yacht that usually docked in the Springdale harbor. Josh had mentioned it one day during batting practice while inviting Michael down to the marina to help him clean the deck. Michael had agreed and had asked Josh, “How will I know which yacht is yours?” Josh had assured him not to worry because he would get there before Michael and wait for him.
Michael knew that Coach Anderson was curious to see how the battery mates, Carlos and Josh, would get along. There was no trouble between the two so far, but Michael often wondered how they were going to hit it off during the short Little League season of eighteen games played during the summer break. All of the games were twilight games, scheduled to start in the evening.
An electrician’s truck pulled up in front of the house and two more boys in Cougar uniforms hopped out. Mr. Wilson, a licensed electrician, grinned from behind the wheel and waved to his son Andy, the Cougar left fielder. He then drove off, probably to his next job.
With Andy was little Daniel Garcia, the youngest boy on the Cougar team. Daniel, who had just turned ten years old, could run very fast and under Coach Anderson’s guidance Daniel was developing into a dependable outfielder while playing center field.
Daniel’s father owned a little Mexican restaurant on the main street in downtown Springdale. The food was excellent, especially the homemade “melt in your mouth” tamales. Mr. Garcia wanted to sponsor one of the teams even though his restaurant, a very small one-window affair, was not making a great deal of money. Because other sponsors had put their bids in first, his offer, though appreciated, was not accepted.
Andy Wilson, tall, slender, and cotton-topped, nodded to Michael when he came up. He pointed across the side lawn and said, “Here comes Matthew Davis.”
Matthew Davis, the third baseman, was walking up the street from one direction, while Ethan Moore, the shortstop, walked from the opposite direction. Davis was the bigger boy, square-jawed, blue-eyed, and freckle-faced.
Michael had sensed a bit of tension existed between Matthew Davis and Ethan Moore. Ethan was a quiet, almost shy boy, and Matthew was just the opposite. Michael hoped it would work itself out.
Tyrone Johnson, the first baseman, followed behind Moore. Tyrone appeared a little self-conscious in his uniform while walking towards Michael’s house. Like Rodriguez, Johnson lived in the same apartment complex and had to put in just as much effort as Rodriguez to get onto a Little League team. He was another quiet kid, but very good at fielding balls and digging throws out of the dirt at first. Michael had liked Tyrone immediately upon meeting him.
Davis walked up on the porch and said rather sourly, “Coach Anderson here, yet?”
“He’ll be along,” Michael replied assuredly. “He told me he might be a few minutes late.” Davis sat down on the edge of the porch. He took Michael’s bat from Carlos Rodriguez’s hands and examined it, his blue eyes shining a little. “This is a beauty,” he murmured.
“There’s Coach Anderson now,” Jake Jones said.
The player on the porch lapsed into silence as Coach Anderson stepped off the bus on the corner and hurried down the street, checking the house numbers as he came, not sure which one was Michael’s. He was a tall man in his thirties, almost gaunt, a thin, homely looking, lantern-jawed man.
When Coach looked up and saw the boys on the porch, he waved and grinned. Michael jogged out to meet him.
“How is it, boy?” the Cougar coach asked.
He had a nice smile, very warm, which made Michael forget the rather homely face. “Is everybody here?” Coach Anderson asked.
Three more Cougar pitchers – Willie Brown, Joseph Williams, and Cris Martinez, were hurrying around the corner. These three boys, with Josh Miller, filled out the pitching roster.
“Everybody’s here but Miller,” Matthew Davis told him.
“Well, we’ll give Josh a few more minutes,” Coach Anderson replied cheerily. “Is this gang all set for the opener tonight?”
The players all nodded, but Michael could see that there was not too much enthusiasm. Most of the players, he himself included, wanted to play for the famous Dusty Taylor. Michael was a little ashamed, remembering his thoughts. It was not fair to Coach Anderson, who was working hard with this Cougar team, getting the players ready for the opening game, while working full time at his job to make his personal ends meet.
Michael stood back against one of the porch columns, looking at the various players. With the exception of Willie Brown, the pitcher, and Andy Wilson, the outfielder, he had known none of the others before the team formed. They were all from different parts of Springdale. The eight coaches, representing the eight teams in the Springdale
League, had made their choices from the various players at spring tryouts with no knowledge of a player’s background, judging them solely upon their abilities on the diamond.
Coach Anderson’s selections, without his knowing it at the time, had cut right through Springdale society. From the walled, gated community of Nob Hill, home to the Miller family, to the middle class residential neighborhood of Michael’s, and into the apartment complex on the other side of the railroad tracks, his selections pulled many different kids together. Michael’s neighborhood included small business owners in town like the Moore’s, the electrician Wilson, and the Garcia family, who owned the restaurant. It included working men like Mr. Davis and Mr. Jones.
Michael remembered how coach had laughingly called it at their first practice session, “Now, if this is not a melting pot, what is?”
A luxurious black touring car pulled up to the curb with a chauffeur at the wheel. When the car came to a stop, the chauffeur stepped out and opened the door. Josh Miller bounced out, grinning like everyone else, already in his full Cougar uniform.
“Holy smoke,” little Daniel Garcia gasped. “This guy has his own chauffer!”
Josh hopped up on the porch. He was a good-looking boy with wavy brown hair and brown eyes. Already Coach Anderson had announced that Josh would start the game tonight.
“How is it everybody?” Josh grinned. “Sorry I am late. We just got back from the beach and John had to rush me over here.”
Michael noticed that John, the chauffeur, had taken out his eBook reader to read as he sat behind the wheel. Evidently, he intended to wait for Josh.
The other boys were looking at the car, also. Tyrone Johnson scratched his chin thoughtfully, his eyes wide. Carlos Rodriguez’s face was expressionless and Michael did not know what to think.
“If we are all here,” Coach Anderson said, “we’ll start the meeting.”
They went out to the patio and sat down in the chairs. Coach started to talk as soon as they sat down. He spoke briskly, using his hands to emphasize a point.
“We have a good club here,” he said earnestly, “a very good club. I do not know how far we will go in this league, but if we all pull together, we will do well. I have seen some very good clubs fall to pieces because they could not or would not play together as a team. We must remember it is not just about how good you are at playing the game of baseball. It is also how well you play alongside the people on the team with you.”
The sober, stolid Andy Wilson was nodding his head vigorously. Little Daniel Garcia nodded also, taking his cue from Andy, who was his closest friend.
The other boys just looked at Coach Anderson or they looked at the floor. Michael could see his talk was not making too much of an impression on them.
“Okay then,” Coach finished. “Here’s the lineup for tonight’s twilight game.”
He posted a scrap of paper on the wall. Every position contained a name with Josh Miller pitching and Carlos Rodriguez catching. Silent murmurs could be heard as excitement began to build. You could feel it in the air. Their season was about to start.
“One other thing,” Coach said. “We’ll need a team captain and that is somebody you will have to elect yourselves.”
Daniel Garcia said, “How about Michael Smith?”
Jake Jones, Andy Wilson, and Ethan Moore nodded.
“Anybody else nominated?” Coach asked.
There were no other nominations and Michael became the team captain. Coach Anderson said to him quietly, “Okay, Michael, it’s your job, and good luck with it.”
“Thanks,’ Michael murmured. He shifted uneasily on his seat, wondering how much luck he was going to need playing for a coach for whom most of his team players did not respect.
SEASON OPENER
