Have you ever felt like a failure?
There are few experiences that bring on the sheer feeling of failure more than the game of baseball. By being an obscenely slow, skinny child with below average hand-eye coordination, my failures at baseball were plenty. I was that kid stuck in right field who’s only hopes of getting on base were getting nailed by a beam ball or being smart enough not to swing in the off chance that I’d walk. Despite the agony of defeat, I continued to sign up and show up for each new season, year after year. Today, after decades of pain, I get the thrill of passing on these vast years of experience to the next generation—I’m a Little League assistant baseball coach.
For the past three years I’ve coached with my friends, Greg Burleson and John Fisher. We’ve had three great years and enjoyed every moment of working with kids and helping them develop skills and knowledge of the game.
This past season we coached the Grasshoppers (a name that invoked fear in the hearts of our opponents). The fate of the Grasshoppers was doomed before the season began, before our first practice. Our destiny was sealed on draft day. Despite three committed coaches, none of us took try outs very seriously—after all, these were nine-year-olds. Thus, when it came time to draft our team, we selected players based upon how cool their name sounded, rather than skill on the field.
Thus, our first practice contained a rather large dose of reality. We had a few outstanding players (four to be exact) and eight others who looked like they’d be more comfortable being drilled on in a dentist chair than throwing the ball around on a baseball field (they reminded me of myself when I was young).
We spent the rest of the season working on the fundamentals. How to throw a ball, how to catch it, how to swing, how to run, rules of the game, positions, everything they needed to know to basically play the game. Fortunately for the Grasshoppers, we actually faired pretty well. Our four solid players, along with those who improved, were good enough to carry the team and thus we ended up as one of the top teams in the league.
From an outsider’s perspective, we looked like a great team. But as coaches, we were frustrated. Certain players showed improvement, but a majority of our novice players continued to struggle with the basics throughout the season. Justin never quite learned to throw a ball correctly. Mark never did meet a baseball he wasn’t deathly afraid to catch. Jeremy only hit a ball one time all season (and that was a foul ball).
Midway through the season the other coaches and I came to a realization—practice is not enough. The kids who thrived on the baseball field possessed one key distinction from those who struggled—baseball was driven from home.
The boys who succeeded on the field were those for whom baseball didn’t end at practice. They consistently went home and played catch with dad in the back yard. They went to the park on their own during the week and worked on hitting. They watched instructional DVD’s at home on how to improve their baseball skills. They went to baseball clinics and camps. Baseball wasn’t just something they participated in; it was a passionate part of their lives.
The boys who struggled on the field were those for whom baseball was a twice a week event—a team practice and a game. At practice the boys would learn a fundamental skill; however, this new knowledge was quickly forgotten between practices because it was never reinforced at home. They never played catch with dad. They never picked up a bat. Baseball was just one more activity they participated in.
My experience as one of the coaches of the Grasshoppers is telling of an issue much deeper and far more important than baseball. It is an issue that touches the core of our society. We are a culture of professionals.
The parents of our players looked to us, the coaches, as “professionals” to teach their children how to play the game of baseball. Certainly, Little League coaches are a far cry from professional coaches; however, as the key volunteers in an organization, we filled the role of the “professionals” in that we were the ones who were the “experts.” Coaches are the “educated” ones who have read about coaching, and researched drills and techniques. Coaches go to clinics and have been trained to do the job. We know how to run practices and how to push players to get the best out of them. It makes sense that parents would want to delegate the role of teaching a child to play baseball to someone who knows what their doing. One problem—it doesn’t work.
As parents we outsource everything to "professionals." How to play catch, how to read, how to study, how to drive. We even outsource developing a relationship with Christ to professionals (pastors). One problem--it doesn't work.
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