Years ago, I wrote an article about a group of 6-year-old baseball players competing in a tournament here. I followed them for several days as they swept through the winners’ bracket and eventually won the championship.

I remember the coach’s pep talk minutes before the final game: “Boys,” the coach said, kneeling to make eye contact with his little glove-chewers, “this is the most important game you will ever play.

“Listen to what I’m saying,” he said, jabbing his finger in the air, “THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT GAME OF YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!”

I wanted to interrupt and say, “Whoa, coach. How do you know that?”

The coach — a nice guy — was merely confused. It was, undoubtedly, the most important game of HIS life. But exhorting his kids to top-out at age 6 was a stretch.

One Sunday afternoon last month, I bought two tickets to the Dizzy Dean World Series at Camp Jordan in East Ridge. Again, it was a tournament for 6-year-olds. This time I went as a dad, not a reporter, and I took along my 6-year-old son, who plays in a different league.

We sat in the stands eating Popsicles and watched a group of suburban-Atlanta kids annihilate one of our Chattanooga-area teams.

In every phase of the game — hitting, defense, base-running — the Atlanta team was superb. With their $200 Lithium bats, the 6-year-olds — many of them just days out of kindergarten — were hitting balls through a temporary outfield fence.

“These guys are great,” I said to one of the Atlanta parents.

“There are three teams in our league better than this,” one of the dads explained.

That’s scary, I thought. I later found out that Atlanta’s northern suburbs are considered an incubator for major league baseball talent.

As the Atlanta-area kids scored at will, I refocused my attention on their coaches, who I noticed were arguing rules with the umpires and bunting for base hits even after their team had built a big lead.

I got a little peeved at the intensity of the coaches, in a “takes-one-to-know-one” way. At my son’s baseball games, I can sometimes feel my own inner competitiveness rising.

I could tell that my boy was a bit perplexed by what he saw at the Dizzy Dean World Series. He is considered a good player in his league — a league where they don’t keep score, and the worst you can possibly be is “awesome.” But watching the Atlanta players was a humbling experience for him.

Suddenly, he wanted to resume our batting practice sessions, even though his baseball season had ended in May. I bought him a new composite bat at a secondhand sporting goods store in Nashville, and Sunday we hit the batting cage.

The next day, while playing backyard catch together, I scolded him for lack of effort.

“Reach across your body,” I said. “That was a catchable ball.”

He put his glove on his hip and glared back at me.

“You’re not going to become one of those overbearing dads, are you?” my wife asked from the sidelines.

“I want to play basketball now,” my son announced.

“OK,” I said.

I proceeded to win — on purpose.

“I’m going inside,” the boy said, storming toward the back door.

“Don’t you want a rematch?” I said, turning my back to him and firing up a jumper.

At that point, the boy spun around and launched his basketball at the back of my head.

Bip!

The ball ricocheted off my head, and left my ears ringing. I could hear him giggling just before the screen door slammed shut.

I turned to run after him, but then I thought to myself, “No, I deserved that.”

The next night I was late getting home. It was my son’s bedtime, but he met me at the back door with a basketball in his hands.

“Ready for your rematch?” I said.

“Yep,” he said. “Been practicing all day.”

“Let’s go, then” I said, as he dribbled past me into the July night.

Mark Kennedy’s new book, “Life Stories,” a collection of his columns, is available at Amazon.com.

Comments