8-0

What a bunch of head cases we have on this team. One kid, mine, pitches a perfectly acceptable two innings, then suffers unspeakable trauma because his outing wasn't up to his own standards. Another, Coach P.'s, throws a bullet from the outfield to the catcher and then blames himself when the ball gets dropped.

Needless to say I didn't bother to console my own son, nor Coach P. his. I talked to his boy and he to mine. All was finally well, but Lord.

Meanwhile our happy go lucky goofball gets us out of three innings with three beautiful catches. The ball went up, we held our breath, and what the hell, another out. Don't know where it came from. Don't know that I care.

Not to suggest it was a normal evening at the ballpark. My middle son was there, primarily so he could talk to the team mother who happens to be a family therapist.

"My dad's a jerk," I heard him tell her between innings.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" she suggested.

"Son, we have an agreement," I said. "You take that stuff and cram it right back down inside you and pretend it never happened. Then late at night you stare at the ceiling and cry. Otherwise I don't pay for golf."

"Yes, daddy," he said.

"Good boy," I told him.

"I'm a good boy," he said, clapping his hands and giggling. He's twelve.

"See, no problem," I told the therapist.

She rolled her eyes and I went back to coaching first base. Just in time, it turned out, to congratulate the youngest kid on the team for earning a walk. A nice boy, but very serious.

"Was ist dies?" I asked him after giving him a high five.

"Huh?" he asked quizzically.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsches?" I said.

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"¿Habla Español?" I said, switching gears.

"You're crazy," he said.

No kidding.

Overall it's been a good week. Coach P. got picked to manage the All Star team, the one that gets to play districts when the season's over, and then, if we're good enough, for the state championship. If my kid makes the team, I've got a shot at being the assistant. That would mean a full month of baseball in July, day after day of practice and games with kids who want to be there, who aren't capable of going less than full throttle.

After tonight I'd like that. One player, angry about playing first base instead of getting to pitch, turned his back on a play and strolled over to cover the base, where he finally caught the ball a few seconds to late. He'll be spending some extra time with the coaches at the next practice for that one.

Win or lose, it doesn't matter so much. But try, damn it.