The boys were all about 12 years old and enthusiastic. They were
the seniors this year, veterans of the Spring Valley Little League.
Their intended manager had moved during the summer of ’86,
next in line just quit . . . and that left me as possible manager.
I had been a coach a couple of years, then Player’s Agent
(interpreter of the rules during disputes – – – to keep parents from
going after umpires) and even, for a year, Vice President of the
league – – – but I was looking forward now to watching my son’s
final year in the league as a simple observer and mild-mannered
fan. But, no – – – parents begged me to become the manager.
(The same parents would later want to hang me, and not in effigy).
I agreed to manage. Our season lasted something like a dozen
games, and we lost most of them! Oh, we had a few good players,
Including a power hitter plus my son, a solid fielder and sharp
batter . . . and we tried. We really tried. We even held practices.
But the other teams were better. Still, I appreciated what the boys
had done – – – and am sure that, with a better, more experienced
Head Honcho, they might have won two or three games. And when
the season ended, the educator in me felt the need to honor the best
players with the same type of trophies I’d been awarding students in
my English classes for years (except, oriented to the sport).
And then I went overboard. I became the guy who gave all the others
minor trophies – – – not for participation but for doing the best that
they were capable of doing, for not dogging it as the losses piled up
So if that makes me a softy or if you want to tell me that the minor
awards lessened the value of the bigger ones, go ahead. Join the
parents who turned on me when miracles didn’t materialize during
the season. Take a game that is meant to be fun for the boys at the
threshold of lives where most of them will never be awarded trophies
or their equivalent, even if they do try their best. I am all right with that,
because I tried my best and, in the end, that is all that matters.