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Coaches Matter

January 9, 2017
DSC_9882

courtesy T.J. Arrowsmith

There were times last year as 4-year-olds battered me with pool noodles that I pulled a “Murtaugh.”  You might remember his as Danny Glover’s curmudgeonly cop in the Lethal Weapon movies of the 90’s.

His signature line?

I’m getting too old for this shit.

Particularly in my “solo” classes, where it was I alone acting as the ringmaster of the preschool circus, at class’ end, I would feel more than weathered, I’d feel withered.  Coaching for me has always had a tinge of fear.  I walk in with a game plan, but am always terribly afraid that it will be a disaster.  The kids will leave having learned nothing, and the nutty coach will have turned them off to baseball forever because it’s as stupid and boring as he is.

That fear has been compounded by a sense of the frivolity of my endeavor.  I put aside my writing to invest in being a coach.  Writing was why I left my very worthwhile job at the Union of Concerned Scientists—a job I believe I was good at, and helped to make a difference.  And now, I’m a 47-year-old man running around with an orange hand puppet and telling kids to run through the bag a first.

What the hell am I doing?

And so I decided this year to scale back.  I’d do some private coaching, but turn back to my writing, something that I believe can make an impact, and perhaps is a bit more age and career appropriate for a middle-aged, Middle East history major.  And I’d save a load of cash not re-upping my insurance, to boot.

And then over the weekend, I received this message:

Coach N,

I’ve emailed you a couple of times since our son took your class in 2013 or 2014, but I just wanted to thank you again and let you know what an impact your enrichment continues to have on him.  My husband and I were just talking about it today, how your class helped him learn how to throw and catch, and gave him the confidence to play with other kids that extended to general self esteem.  We have since discovered that he has some learning disabilities that make tasks that may be intuitive to others, very difficult for him. He needs to be instructed on things that come easily to most kids, and playing catch is one example.  You broke throwing and catching down into easy steps in a manner that he could understand.  I can’t tell you enough how much of a positive impact your enrichment had on him.  He now has no problem jumping in to any game of catch, whereas prior to your class a game of catch would typically result in tears and self-deprecating comments. 

In an area that has so many high-achieving kids and parents, it can be really discouraging for parents of a child with learning differences when it feels like everyone else’s kid is on travel everything.  Thank you so much for providing a fun, supportive, non-competitive opportunity for kids to learn how to be like other kids.  Your impact as a coach will stay with him and our family forever.

Maybe I am not solving global warming.  And my books haven’t hit the shelves just yet.  But this message reminded an old coach of young children just what a simple game of catch can mean to a kid, and to a family.  How while we rightly focus on the way we educate our kids in school, there is a real and enduring value in finding the right ways to teach our kids to play.

I just paid for my insurance today.  Come spring, a dozen preschoolers will be pelting me with their Super Hero throws.  I may indeed be too old for this shit, but I am a coach.

And coaches matter.

Get That Bat on Your Shoulder!

December 6, 2016

bryce-harper-bat-shoulder

Anyone who has ever broiled or shivered through their child’s t-ball or coach pitch season probably has a PRSD (that’s post-repetition stress disorder) event hearing this phrase:

“Get the bat off your shoulder, [PLAYER NAME]!”

Lord knows I’ve used it plenty of times myself over the years.  The idea is that we want the hitter to have “active hands” so they can generate power and quickness, rather than simply drag the bat off their shoulder, drop their hands, and make a loopy swing toward the ball.  Those are the swings that usually ram the bat right into the tee, spilling the bucket of balls all over home plate.  You scramble and the kids giggle (okay, PRSD moment of my own there).

Indeed, “bat off the shoulder” may come in a close second to “stepping in the bucket” for the most used/overused phrases for youth coaches.  I developed the “ear bop” technique part of my Ninja Hitting program to reinforce the notion to my young hitters that their hands should start high, by their ear.  It’s the way I was taught.  It’s the way I’ve seen it taught.  And my kids looked more like your prototype big leaguer with that advice.

But a good coach isn’t just always teaching.  A good coach is always learning.

I remember hearing a story a couple of years back that Mike Matheny, now the manager of the St. Louis Cardinals told about his mentor, Tony LaRussa.  They were sitting in the dugout together, and LaRussa turned to him and asked, “Mike, about what percentage of the game to you think you know?”  Matheny thought about it for a moment.  He’d played the game all his life, and enjoyed a long Major League career as a catcher, one of the most physically and mentally demanding positions on the field.  He retired and went immediately into coaching, and now was on track to become LaRussa’s successor as a MLB manager of one of the most storied franchises in the sport.

“I’d say about 80 percent,” Matheny responded, as while he was a baseball lifer, he knew that there was always something new to learn.

LaRussa nodded his head silently.

“How about you?” Matheny replied.

LaRussa, considered one of the games great masterminds and a lock for the Hall of Fame, simply replied:

“Oh, about 35 percent.”

Despite his 2006 Cardinals upsetting my Mets in the NLCS, it is a story I still love to tell, and remind myself of.    And this year, that lesson really hit home with the ole’ “Bat off your shoulder” axiom.

It started this spring, as I was chatting with the Dad of Ford, one of my Aces.  As it happens, Ford’s Dad is another “Coach Scott” as he had been coaching his younger boy’s travel team, so we both spoke from a place of knowledge.  I asked how Ford was doing in the house season, and he said that he was making contact, but not really hitting with any power.  This was something we had seen with Ford in the previous travel season and had trouble figuring out.  My Nationals were going to play his Red Sox, so I told Other Coach Scott that I’d give Ford’s swing a look and see if I saw anything new.

Ford’s stance looked perfect.  Nice high hands, wrists waggling ever-so-slightly to keep those quick-twitch muscles from getting stiff.  A solid and early stride to the ball, good hip rotation, and….a grounder to second.  He squared it up, so what went wrong?

So I really looked closely his next time up, and, finally, it was the “Ah-Ha!” moment.  As he began his swing, those nice high hands dropped down to his shoulder, where the bat rested for just a split second.  He then pushed the bat off his shoulder and into the hitting zone.

For Ford, my “ear bop” advice was not the solution to his hitting issues.

It was the problem.

How could this be?  I’m CoachN, dammit!  I’m supposed to be right about this stuff.

That next day, I did something I hadn’t done in a while—I hit.  I went into the backyard, just me and the tee.  I pictured Ford’s swing in my mind’s eye and attempted to emulate it.  So, for the first time, I not only saw the issue, I felt it.  With his hands that high, there was no place for them to go but down.  And with his early step, the bat would naturally find a resting place on his shoulder as he approached the ball.

A couple of days later, a bunch of the Aces were watching a High School game, and I sat down with Ford.  I explained what I saw, and something came out of my mouth that made the T-Ball coach in me squirm.  I told him that maybe he should actually try to start with the bat ON his shoulder, and as he loaded for his swing, make sure his hands were moving up and then out to the ball.  “We want up-and-out,” I told him, “not down-and-around.”

Now, Ford is a hard-working, strong, smart, and just really good kid.  So perhaps I am taking a bit more credit than I deserve, but, boy, did that correction really seem to work for him.  He was a line-drive machine not just for the rest of the house season, but was one of the most consistent hitters on the Aces all summer (when he wasn’t getting run over by his coach, but that’s another story).  And it took was getting the bat on his shoulder.

As I dive deeper into middle age, I find one old axiom to be true: the more I learn, the more I realize just how much I don’t know.  I think that’s what Tony LaRussa was imparting to Matheny.  As a coach, or a teacher, or a doctor, or a president, it can be very easy to simply sit back and rely on the safety of assumed expertise.  Knowledge can make us powerful, but it can also make us lazy.

So with this one swing, I learned a lot of lessons about myself as a coach (and maybe a few about myself as…myself):

  • Really see the player before you coach the player: While some skills are more one-size-fits-all than others, see a player’s natural abilities from the ground up. Don’t be too quick to put a player in a particular mold.  Find her/his strengths and build off of those.
  • Understand each player’s challenges are unique, and often contradictory: Sometimes, a player needs to start with the bat on his shoulder. Hey it’s worked for MLB players like John Olreud and Bryce Harper!  Sometimes they need those hands up high.  “Systems” are great starters but they cannot and should not be the end-all-be-all in teaching.  Be flexible and see that the challenge of your player, or the strength, may actually teach you something new as well.
  • Understand that why they are trying to do is hard: While some people are naturals, most are not—be it hitting a baseball, fixing a transmission, or completing an equation. Really acknowledging the challenge helps to keep both the player and the coach focused on the positive.  It’s also a reminder that trying hard things and even the small successes breeds a worth ethic that can last a lifetime.
  • Try it yourself: I’m reminded of the move The Doctor with William Hurt. He is a famous and narcissistic surgeon that has his life turned upside-down by throat cancer.  In his fight, he starts to see things from the patients’ perspective, and forces all his residents to be patients as a lesson in empathy.  I really couldn’t fully get Ford’s issues and suggest a solution until I picked up a bat myself.  Indeed, my current swing is now totally different than the one I used back in school as I started to incorporate everything I’ve learned in coaching to my personal approach.  Practicing what you preach help keeps your mind open, and keeps you humble.  I now work on my own game every chance I get for just that reason.
  • Don’t be afraid to get it wrong: Baseball, like life, is a game of adjustments. Indeed, numerous studies are showing that for academic assessments, learning from wrong answers actually leads to better retention of correct answers, leading to rethinking about tests more as a teaching rather than an assessment tool.  So as a coach and a player, it’s incumbent on us to be open and try new things.  Sometimes getting it wrong is the only way we’ll ever get it right.  And what’s right now may not be right later on.

So, get out there, get that bat on your shoulder (or not) and try, try again.

Boy Over Boys, Part I: Fudge

November 29, 2016

baseball-fudge

It was a little Texas Leaguer over the third baseman’s head.

It was perfect.

My younger son doesn’t quite have the brawn of my big boy.  Okay, that’s an understatement.

You remember what Steve Rogers looked like with his shirt off before he became Captain America?  That guy looks like a body-builder compared to my twiggy little fella.

But like that pre-serum Steve, Gunnar has a competitive fire that outstrips his two-dimensional frame.  He’s become an accomplished bunter, and we’ve worked together to compliment his blips with bloops; drawing the 3rd baseman in with the bunt attempt and then slapping one by him.

I was watching from my perch as 3rd base coach, already thinking that with a good bounce he might get a double out of the dunk.  And, out of nowhere, the shortstop hurtled in the air and made a spectacular catch; his little body sprawled right on the cutout between the infield dirt and outfield grass.

Shortly thereafter, a single word hurtled in the air from down the first base line:

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDGE”

Only he didn’t say “Fudge.” He said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the “F-dash-dash-dash” word.

It was the 3rd out of the inning, which was about the only thing that saved Gunnar’s bacon.  For the mix of players changing sides allowed a bit of distraction from his latest episode.

“Did you hear what he said?” The young base umpire, a college kid collecting a summer paycheck, seemed a bit bewildered by the language he likely heard about every 0.25 seconds in his dorm.  But timing is, of course, everything, be it comedy, tragedy, or in this case, an inextricably intertwined combination.

“Yep.  Hard to miss,” chuckled Dave, the burly veteran I’ve had behind the plate since my older one was hitting off a tee.

Dave flashed me a look as I jogged toward my flailing first-baseman, now flinging his helmet to the ground.

“Do what you need to do, Dave,” I replied.

“I think you’ve got this, Coach,” Dave said with a bemused grin.

He knew that this was my kid in full meltdown.  And he thought that it was a kindness that he pulled back on what should have been done—namely throwing my son out of the game.

It was not.  Because now we had to do the dance.

Over the past few seasons, I’ve needed to cha-cha between gentle support and tough love as Gunnar battled his competitive demons.  I myself toggled between an empathy borne from my own boyhood tennis temper tantrums and full-body rage over stolen home runs, to a frustration bred from repetition and the aforementioned familiarity with my own failings.

Of course, Gunnar was benched for the rest of the game.  Of course, he eventually felt terribly about what he did.  He told Coach Steve that he felt that there was a monster inside him that he couldn’t control.  He tearfully apologized to the entire team during our postgame talk.

It was heartbreaking.

Again.

As we prepared for the next day’s games, I knew that this time, he had crossed a line that needed to be addressed.  For the moment, I needed to put Dad aside, and put my coach’s hat on.  And so I consulted with Coaches Steve, Bill, Kevin, and of course Coach Nolet’s Dry Gin on the matter.  All were supportive and understanding (or at least helped calm me down a bit with intensely floral drinkability).  And everyone agreed—this time there needed to be consequences.

We settled on a one game suspension.  My first instinct was to bar him from the rest of the tournament, but my coaches talked me down off that ledge, reminding me how hard it’s been on Gunnar to be the “Coaches Kid.”  For while being in that role can lead to preening primadonnas when the kid is the best on the team, the role can also create intense pressure on the player who has had to work his tail off just to be middle-of-the-pack.

Gunnar had gotten that most reviled of sports taunts – “You’re only on the team because your Dad is the coach!” – on several occasions at school.  In his earnest desire to prove himself, he made each pitch, each swing, and each play in every single game into an unending death-spiral of a tryout.  Every failure reinforced the bullies’ jab, and, because this is baseball, by its very nature he failed more often than he succeeded.  The Monster, a creature he came by honestly (indeed, genetically) grew into something he could no longer control.

This Monster, however, had to be put in a cage.  And so my son…my player…my son…and I talked.  I let him know I was proud of the fact the apologized to the team after the game, and I understood this was a part of him he didn’t like.  But he had crossed a line, and both he and the team needed to know there were consequences to these actions.

And so father-and-son, player-and-coach stared at each other—eyes welling and voices cracking with guilt, love, and remorse—embraced, and accepted each other for who we were.

I then loaded the trunk and headed down to the field.

Alone.

Only now do I realize that that was the beginning of the end.

Rooting for the Bully

November 14, 2016

roger clemens mike piazza

“Ball!” shouted the umpire.  Blue was good tonight.  He had been consistent for both sides.  And even as he called a ball for what seemed like the 20th time in a row, he maintained that slight, upward cadence that exposed neither frustration nor opinion on the pitch at hand.

The same, however, could not be said of our pitcher.  Walter, we’ll call him, was having the same sort of issues that we’ve seen since he was nine-years-old.  Back then, he was among the hardest throwers and biggest hitters in our youth league–without doubt a talent.  His father was the coach of our “A” travel team, and Walter during tryouts made sure to let all the new kids know who both he and his Dad were.  And his cabal ruled the roost, creating a social pecking order that at least in part led some players to join a competing travel system.

But now at 15-years-old, the small, warm pond of parent-coaches and prepubescent physical equanimity had both widened and cooled.  His father sat in the stands watching just as I did.  And while Walter’s arm still screamed talent, his mercurial control had become a real roadblock.

After having already walked in a run, Walter’s body language was there for the world (not to mention the umpire) to see.  Stomping, snatching the ball out of the air, eyes rolling like a slot machine.  Now, there were two errors sandwiched into his BB hoagie, but that was the classic pattern.  Pitchers set the tone for the team—for better or for worse.  And with Walter, a leadoff walk almost invariably led to a painful dance of fielders back on their heels.  Invariably, errors combined with walks would set the table for the occasional hit that would clear it off.

My boy had seen more than his share of this from behind the plate over the past few seasons as Walter’s teammate.  As I’ve noted, he wasn’t part of the club, only breaking through for a cup of coffee as an A/B player at 12.  He worked his way to the A squad at 14 when we moved to the senior league.  Now he and Walter were JV together, and my guy was stuck behind the plate.

Stuck, I say, because catching in the spring was tough, and the coaches made no bones about the fact my guy left something to be desired.  He’s an earnest kid; taking criticism to heart.  After the season was over he concluded that he really didn’t have what it took to get to that next level as a catcher, saying, “I worked as hard as I could, and I went from being a lousy catcher to being a thoroughly mediocre one!”

Having made the decision that it was time to leave the tools of ignorance behind, he delighted in the prospect of a fall season where he would be able to work on developing elsewhere.  With reps, he’s shown himself to be a solid first baseman, and has shown some potential on the mound as well.

But, alas, it was not to be.  The #1 catcher for the team plays hockey in the fall, and the main backup, a pal of his, developed a growth plate injury that ended his season early.  The only other backstop on the team struggled far more than Gus defensively with the pace of High School pitching, and also needed to develop elsewhere.  That left my guy…and only my guy…to catch for pretty much the entire fall.

This game was particularly frustrating, as rather than the usual teams, this was the annual series where the JV and varsity teams were “drafted” into two mixed squads and played each other in a best-of-three series.  I had thought this might give my guy an opportunity to get a break by being on a team with a varsity catcher.  But instead, he ended up being the only catcher on his team, while the other side ended up with three.

And so my son did the Dante Hicks, taking another beating both mentally and physically behind the plate, thinking all the while, “I wasn’t even supposed to be here today!”  But he also knew he had a responsibility to the team, and I taught him from early on that the most important part of being a catcher was to help his pitcher.  If the pitcher threw a 55-foot curve ball that bounced over the catcher’s head, it’s the catcher’s job to run get it and thump his chest, saying, “my bad.”  Why should a catcher suffer such abuse?  Because it’s his job to get the most out of the pitcher possible.  As I told him, “In the scorecard, the pitcher is Number 1 and the Catcher number 2 for a reason.”

It’s not fair, but it’s baseball.  It wasn’t designed to be fair.

But when my guy threw Walter’s latest wide one back to him, we were all privy to a pure primadonna moment.  Walter caught the ball and held it in place, starting Gus down.  In baseball parlance, the message was clear—I’m not getting the pitches called because you aren’t catching them correctly.

Now, framing pitches has never been one of Gus’s strong suits.  He’s gotten better but he’s still a little too quick to move the ball and tends to “drift” with the pitch instead of getting around it and sticking it in the strike zone.

But as the inning ground on, Walter decided to make his silent protest on every ball thrown, with the exception of the not-infrequent balls to the backstop and the not-frequent strike.  It was on about the eighth held ball that my guy finally got a little relief.

Interestingly enough, it came from the umpire, who removed his mask, as well as his impartiality.

“Son, that ball was six inches outside.  There’s not a catcher on the planet that can make that look like a strike,” Blue barked at Walter.  Soon thereafter the coach came out to give Walter the hook, as everyone had reached their saturation point.  The next pitcher managed to get the final out of the inning, and my guy hobbled off the field as if he were an arthritic veteran at the close of his career.  30 minutes in a squat will do that to you.

As he gimped, a senior on the varsity team came over from first base and started talking, and continued the conversation in the dugout.  After the game, I asked my son what he said.  “He said I was a good catcher, but I should never take that kind of shit from my pitcher, ever.  He said next time he does that, I should tell him to cut that crap out or it’s going to get physical.”

My immediate instinct was to climb him down off that wall.  Indeed, that advice went against everything I had said about the importance of bucking-it-up and keeping the pitcher in his pocket.  That catching is about the pitcher (not to mention the whole non-violent conflict resolution thing).  The pitcher has control of the game, and no matter whether he is your best friend or your worst enemy, the fate of your team begins with him.

Indeed, despite Walter’s history, I found myself as a parent being consistently loud-and-vocal in rooting for him.  He has talent.  He can help the team.  And he’s not going anywhere.  And with any teen, there’s always the hope that his maturity could grow with this talent, and in the end he could be a real asset to our team on and off the field.  What was the point in doing anything other than cheer him on?

But I was forced to reconsider.  Yes, our team’s success will depend on Walter when he’s on the mound.  Yes, he’s the one with the ball.  But there is a line that must be drawn between supporting his ability to help the team and simply enabling him to continue to abuse his teammates.

There comes a point when the catcher needs to make a stand.

My guy got a break at the next game, as the coach realized the mistake he made in the draft (I might have said a little something) and put another catcher on our team.  Gus got a chance to play first and even pitch an inning.  In the stands, I was chatting with Walter’s Dad and felt I needed to make a stand of my own.  He was well aware of the fact that Gus wanted “out” from behind the plate, and I noted that Walter’s actions in the last game helped cement those feelings.

His Dad, who even in the days when he didn’t make the team was always encouraging of Gus and praised his work-ethic, immediately responded.  “I have no idea what that was,” he said, shaking his head.  “His pitches weren’t even close.  I told him to apologize to your boy in school.  He texted me and he said he did.” (I must note that independent confirmation of said apology has been hard to come by).

That next Sunday, my fella went from catcher to coach, helping me out with the 12-year-old team his brother was playing on.  It was a tough sun directly in the catcher’s eyes, and our guy was really struggling back there, much to the consternation of our pitcher.  And while I worked to temper our tempestuous hurler between innings, Coach Gus took our young catcher aside.

“You do everything you can to help the pitcher,” he said, “but you don’t take shit from him.  He needs to understand that just because he’s on the mound, that doesn’t give him the right to give you crap.  If you think he’s out of line, you let him know.”

And that, my friends, is how movements begin.  Bravery can be contagious.

Hmm.  Maybe there’s a metaphor in that.  I’ll give it some thought.

Post Election Stress Disorder

November 9, 2016

bruce-wayne-president

Frustration.

Powerlessness.

A feeling like your voice doesn’t matter.

Anyone feeling that way today?

Frankly, I’ve been feeling that way for the better part of a year now.  It’s why while I’ve been busy as Dad and Coach and certainly have some stories to tell, SHYB has been in a virtual shutter.

I’ve started dozens and dozens of posts.  On the need to rethink the way we teach kids baseball.  On how I reacted when a young player said to me—“You’re weird!”  On the demise of the Super Hero genre even as it rises.  On the exchange between my 15-year-old son and my mother when he linked his own experiences being bullied for his stutter to the actions of our President-elect.  Those and many more gathering dust on the virtual shelf.

I cannot finish them.  Any of them.  And I’m struggling to keep going even at this moment.  I’ve reached a point where I simply don’t like the sound of my own voice.  In the constant drone of social media, the endless chimes of incoming email, the explosion of availability of news both true and “truthy,” my words feel redundant and trite.  My voice does not feel special, or even valuable.

And last night didn’t help.

Or did it?

I started Stop Hitting Your Brother to take a look at parenting and pop-culture from a conflict-resolution standpoint.  And, in this moment when we face four years of an almost literal “Bully Pulpit” I have heard those like Van Jones say, “What do we tell our kids in the morning?”

I know this is hyperbolic, but the feeling I have today has a strange taste of 9/11.  I remember in the days after the attacks, I started looking online at potential jobs in smaller towns in the Midwest.  With DC as one of the ground zero locations, I worried for my infant child and thought perhaps it might be better to head elsewhere to better protect his future.  Given Canada’s immigration site crashed last night, I’m guessing others are dealing with a similar emotional déjà vu.

It was that fear of the unknown—the horrific prospects the Id of my imagination happily filled—that made me feel unable to ground myself in the reality of that moment.  I knew the world was profoundly changed, and in a way that dashed my dreams of a post-Cold War world where, while we still struggled with the complexities of ethnic hatred and economic disenfranchisement, was a world that was better than the one that we had left when the Berlin wall fell.

Ironically, we woke up today on the anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall with a President-elect who used the building of one as his signature.  And that 9/11 feeling of a diminished, depressing future – of a country not struggling to overcome its past demons, but one who would prefer to ignore them (and some even celebrate them) in favor of the illusion of past greatness sears my soul with a disturbingly similar dread.

Now, I’ve seen folks like me posting and writing inspiring and consoling lines from Anne Frank and MLK.  Believe in the good in people.  The arc of history bends toward justice.  This Huffington Post piece that tells us we should tell our kids that we will protect them from the big, bad, Trump first and foremost.  And with those yawps into the perceived darkness come the unsure retorts of those seized by it – we are simply not sure anymore: of the light in people; of the arc of justice; that we can or should tell our kids that everything will be all right.

I don’t buy it.  My belief in this country is profoundly shaken.  But this moment — at least for me — is saying something different.

For me, it brings to mind another profound philosopher, Ms. Rachel Dawes.  Don’t know who that is?  Well, of course, she’s the assistant DA and long-time friend of Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins (hey, it’s SHYB — of course there’s going to be a pop-culture reference).  As she said to an apparently vapid billionaire playboy:

“It’s not what you are underneath.  It’s what you do that defines you.”

To be honest, I’m not sure people in general have a “nature.”  And I’m not sure it matters.  The idea of recompense for good deeds is alluring, but it presupposes some kind of emotional payment that may never come.  Instead of proffering a better vision of a future I am entirely unsure about, what I feel like I can do is figure out what I think I can do today that will make our world a little more loving, a little more tolerant, and a little more understanding of others.

Obama told us to hope.  But maybe it’s better to just act hopefully instead, and let the chips fall where they may.

An election is a competition, and we get very caught up in the “winning.”  It’s understandable, given everything that is on the line.  But, as a coach, I get the fact that no matter how hard you work, no matter how well you do things, someone out there just might do it better.  Or someone might take a great pitch you made and flair it just over the infield for a game winning blooper (my best analogy at the moment for a candidate who won more votes but lost the election).  The result, however devastating, should not…cannot… invalidate the effort.

I am fearful today, I will fully admit.   I have less hope than I had 24 hours ago.

But I think I have found the power to act hopefully.

To show my children through my actions what I think the world should be whether it ever ends up that way.  That tolerance, inclusion, and love is how we should both live and give no matter what comes back to us in return.  That the value is in the effort, and that failure is part of the learning experience, and helps make us better people and our future actions more effective.

My first step in this process is right here, right now.  I will reclaim my words and my voice on this blog, and in my books.  I may still very much doubt who I am underneath, and what I do may define me in a way I don’t like.

But it is what I do.

I encourage all of you who feel like I do to go and do, too.

Well, what do you know, I finally finished one.

Ping Pong, Baseball, and the Art of (Non) Competition

February 8, 2016

Ping Pong

“My recommendation.  Lift weights.  Heavy weights.  A lot.”

That’s what my older son’s coach told him at the post-season dinner that ended his first season playing high-school level ball.  He didn’t make the JV team as an 8th Grader, but was invited to play fall ball; an unofficial version the area high school teams playing in the Northern Virginia Travel Baseball League.  The coaches are not the high school staff, as they are not allowed to coach during the fall.  Instead, a group of former players in their teens and twenties volunteer to lead the squad.

These young guys all still love to lift, and lift big, and that’s been the gospel in baseball for a while now.  I remember in my injury-interrupted efforts to play college ball, the first thing my coach told me to do when I hit campus was to hit the weight room.  Indeed, strength training has now become a standard element of elite ball, as despite the fact that baseball has a more ecumenical reputation for focusing on performance rather than size, first impressions still matter.

And big guys get the benefit of the doubt.

So it was something of a revelation when Gus’s former travel coach, a seasoned veteran who has been helping kids in the area develop for the better part of two decades now, threw a wrinkle into the traditional off-season grunt fest: he recommended the kids play Ping-Pong.

I had never thought about it before, but the second I read those two words, it was a light-bulb moment.  Both for offense and defense, quick hands, anticipation, and tracking the ball are crucial to a developing baseball player’s skill-set.  And while I agree that getting stronger is important, neither strength nor speed are truly the foundational skill for quality baseball players – it’s quickness.

We asked our boys if they’d be interested in a Ping-Pong table as their combined gift for the holidays, and I was surprised that they both almost instantaneously agreed.  So I found a good deal on a nice table at Costco that fit in what was until December our indoor baseball/football/wrestling/light saber fight space.

Ping-Pong was huge at my high school, and I’m a fair tennis player, so I’ve always been pretty good.  And my skills have held up I garnered family bragging rights as I not only cooked our Thanksgiving dinner solo, but also managed to bag the trophy at the first annual Table Turkey Tourney over Thanksgiving.

And this brought me to a bit of a conundrum.  At the moment, I’m still better than my boys at the game.  Both my fellas have a competitive streak; certainly not a bad thing in itself.  And while I would sometimes let up a bit, I refuse to simply lose on purpose – they won’t get any better or learn any lessons from it (okay, maybe with a little drop of ego mixed in).

But at first what I found was that even after close matches and my noting that they were getting better (and they were), they really didn’t want to play me anymore.  When I coaxed them to the table, they would either get frustrated and either play angry (slamming the ball at my head) or just not take it seriously (slamming the ball at my head).  While they would play each other on occasion, our grand experiment (and investment) looked like nothing more than a holiday fad.

Determined to stem the tide of ambivalence, I thought I had found a fun “power with” way to bridge the competition gap.  I had suggested to my little guy that instead of playing against each other, we see how long we could hold a rally.  He was into it, and we had a nice 10 minutes trying to best our top number.  But as I dreamed of what a wonderful blog post I would be writing about “power-with Ping-Pong,” I found in fairly short order that that there was a downside.

For as we improved at playing together, our efforts to push each other with angles and pace diminished.  We held back, hit more softly, and aimed as much as we could for the middle of the table.  While it was fun, it was clear that the developmental end of the game was being thwarted by the cooperative one.

Once again stymied by, the answer I was searching for presented itself through that wondrous instrument of education: television.  My little guy, not normally huge tennis fan, does love the idea of sports greatness.  And after Serena Williams’s run at the Grand Slam last year, he was very interested in watching her begin a new quest.  So as Gunnar sat on the sofa and watched the Australian Open, my big fella toyed with the Ping Pong paddle; the tennis serving as a Pavlovian call to action.  I asked him if he wanted to play, and a deep throated, “Sure” warbled forth in lukewarm agreement.

But when he started to rally, it wasn’t with any seriousness.  Rather, he began to grunt like a tennis player every time he swung.  I started to become peevish immediately as the balls flew straight past the table (and at my head).

But this time, instead of going into “Coach Mode,” I caught myself.  One of the things I sometimes forget as kids – my kids included – is that getting a little silly is important at any age.  Any game, at the end of the day, needs to be a game.  We want our players to work hard and get better, but what’s the point if it’s not fun?

And so I pulled out my very favorite tennis grunt in history, the high-pitched “Wha-Unh!” squeal of Monica Seles.  And we stood there at the table, paddling, grunting, and giggling over our ridiculous contest.  We didn’t keep score, but we ended up having a number of epic rallies; the non-competitive competition allowed me the space to push him without him feeling like he was being pushed.

Gunnar, fascinated by the absurdity, but always the literalist, demanded to know if I was doing an accurate Monica Seles impression.  My wife had just come in, and showed him how well I screeched by finding an old Seles-Graf match on YouTube.  After affirming my skill, he demanded to join in, and a new family tradition was born.

The boys either play each other, their friends, or me must about every day now, and rarely do we keep score.  Instead we compete without competing, focusing on the fun.  The result is that both boys can now far more easily respond to balls with more pace.  Even if they hit the ball out, just by getting to it, they are showing that their reflexes and eye-hand coordination are improving.  Even though some video games do have an element of reflex and eye-hand coordination training, they really can’t match real-world physical interactions (at least not yet—virtual reality may have something to say about that soon).

I saw the proof that this training translates just this past weekend at my 11u travel team’s winter workouts.  I was running the pitching machine and had turned up the speed higher than they had seen it all off-season.  Gunnar, a solid if unspectacular hitter on my B-Team last year, stepped in and simply out-performed about 2/3 of the guys, including about half of the A-Team players.  It was clear that his ability to judge and react was profoundly improved with a couple of months tracking and chasing Ping-Pong balls.

So whether it’s a full-sized table or just one of those portable nets you can spread across in the dining room (but watch out for that chandelier!), I highly recommend Ping-Pong as an offseason training tool.  The Seles squeal is optional, but highly recommended.

Summer Camp, Spiderman, and the Social Art of Catching

December 17, 2015

Scott Catcher

Those who know me and my lunatic ways on the baseball field are often surprised to learn about how painfully shy I was as a child.  Many introverts are shy as kids, as we do not realize until later in life that while we can be social, and, yes, even enjoy being social, that it takes a tremendous amount of energy for us to do so.

As a child, this feeling of social depletion often leads to an aversion to and anxiety about being with people.  I remember this being especially hard for me at my one sleep-away camp, Blue Star, a Jewish camp in North Carolina.  In retrospect, it wasn’t a bad camp.  I made a good friend, almost landed my first real girlfriend, and hindsight tells me it had most of the usual activities and idiocies that movies like Meatballs tell me I should expect from the experience.

But I hated it.

I have come to understand that my particularly strong negative reaction came from the fact that you are never, ever alone at sleep-away camp.  From bunks to bathrooms, there is no respite from socializing other than sleep (fleeting as it was with the usual jackass pranks and early-morning bugles).

Those of you who aren’t introverts might think that the person reading the book in a crowded restaurant has that issue solved.  Now that I’m a little more comfortable in my own skin, I can do that and feel energized.  But at the ripe old age of 12, I knew that just made me look like the weird kid.

My one redeeming moment at Blue Star was in the annual talent show (Meatballs, I’m telling ya).  At that time, I was a huge Steve Martin fan; listening to Comedy is not Pretty until the needle wore out, and tacking his “Best Fishes” photo from the album along-side my poster of U.S. Senator John Blutarski.  My counselor refused to let anyone not participate, and told me to “do something” for the Gong Show portion of the competition.

I really can’t remember the routine, as when he literally pushed me on stage, I just kind of went somewhere else.  I remember poking fun at the guy who went on before me (he used a dead frog on a stick to do a dance) and teased the counselors.

I remember laughs.  A lot of them.

And I remember after asking my counselor whether people were making fun of me when they laughed.

“No way, man!” he replied earnestly.  “You were hilarious! Who knew Scott Nathanson was funny?”

In looking back at my childhood, I realize that there were two places “in a crowd” I actually felt energized: on the stage, and behind the plate.

The one unifying factor for both?

I was Spiderman.

That nerdy kid who put on the mask and became the wise-cracking hero.

Whether it was playing King Achashverosh, the drunken regent of Persia for my 3rd Grade Purim play (back by popular demand in the 4th!), or the lout of a husband who gets his just “desserts” in my fabulous filmmaker friend Thom Harp’s Proof is in the Pudding, putting on the mask of another character felt freeing rather than draining.

I felt the same way when I put on a catcher’s mask.  While normally my coaches had issues prying a single sentence out of me, when I caught, it was hard to shut me up.  I talked to my pitcher non-stop.  I urged.  I coaxed.  I may have even taunted the batters just a little, tiny bit at times.  I distinctly remember a few hitters telling me to, “Shut the hell up.”  I would merely shrug, and continue to yammer away.

And despite being born with a terminal case of “Catcher’s Disease”—I’m left handed—I was pretty darned good.  I remember getting validation early on.  I was nine, and our ace Pitcher Wes Winterstein was on the mound.  I was late to the game and arrived in the 2nd to find that we were already down to the Phillies 6-0.  To make matters worse, they had runners on first and second with no one out.  I remember the coach saying, “Thank god you’re here,” and taking out the boy catching in the middle of the inning as soon as I was suited up (not something I would do today as a coach, mind you).

The change in Wes was immediate.  I remember to this day yelling at him, “I’m back, let’s go!”  He stared in, and buzzed a strike down the middle.

The Phillies wouldn’t score again.

It’s funny how in the scramble to help kids find their own path, we coaches – and I think teachers and parents as well – will sometimes shy away from our own stories.  We don’t want to do the, “Back in my day…” thing; feeling rightly that each child and each generation has unique characteristics and qualities.  And as the mercury pushed up past 70 degrees this past Saturday, I organized a special catcher’s clinic for my 11-year-olds.  My main goal was to start working on how to frame pitches and the mechanical skills it takes to move (or not move) the glove.  And I had been watching a lot of videos on technique and found new approaches to framing I had never learned as a player.

But as I brought the boys to the backstop, all those old memories began to flood back.  And so we spent as much time talking about who you need to be as a catcher than what you need to do.  Both are important, but I realized just then that I had been remiss with my catchers in instruction on the former.  I think it’s because that, ironically for an introvert, that was the one part of this very difficult game (and an even more difficult position) that actually came naturally to me.

And so, I have committed myself to working more with my catchers in general, but go beyond just framing, throwing, and blocking.  Those skills make for getting better at playing baseball, but they don’t make for better ballplayers.  In addition, the social art of catching transcends the game itself, teaching empathy, leadership, partnership, along with verbal and non-verbal communications skills that can help a player mature as a person.

Now there are a million great catching videos out there (I’m quite partial to the Touch ‘Em All series, and this GameChanger blog has a nice compilation) that go into the mechanics of the position.  But for those interested, here are my tips that look at the skills you need behind the mask.

CoachN’s Social Skills Catching Drills

  • “Talk” with the umpire: A catcher is having a game-long conversation with the umpire, both verbal and non-verbal.  Remember that you want it to be a friendly conversation, not a debate.  Introduce yourself to the umpire at the beginning, and make him feel like you’ll do your best to give him the best looks at the pitches and protect him as best you can.  Then continue that conversation with every pitch you receive.
  • Your #1 job: be your pitcher’s best friend:  The best friend a catcher has on the team is whoever it is on the mound at that moment.  Your job is to make him feel comfortable and confident no matter what the situation.  Talk to him, point at him, take the blame for wild pitches if he’s having trouble even if it’s really not your fault.  Plain and simple, the pitcher is the center of the action and driving the plot, not you.  Your job is to try and get the best out of him you possibly can.  To geek-out a bit, he’s Luke, you’re Yoda.
  • Be positive: About the worst thing I have ever seen a catcher do is call time out, go up to the pitcher, and tell him that he stinks (and yes, I have seen that).  If you think that is a good move for a catcher, it’s time to find another position to play.  A catcher should be relentlessly encouraging to his pitcher, giving him fist-pumps and thumbs-ups on good strikes and close pitches, and little encouragements and the occasional pat on the keester if he’s struggling.
  • Be honest: If the coach comes out and asks you how you think the pitcher is doing, be honest with the coach.  You have the best view of the pitcher, and if you are focused on him, should be able to get perhaps an even better sense than he has as to whether he has anything left in the tank.  If you think he does, go to bat for him, as that buys you considerable cred with your pitcher and will pump him up.  The coach will make the final call, but you can definitely help him, the pitcher, and the team by being honest.
  • Speak like Spiderman: Chatty, competitive, and a little funny; just like you see the catcher in movies from The Sandlot to Bull Durham.  So talk all the time, not just when you have a conference on the mound.  While you need to feel out if this is working for your pitcher or the umpire, these are the good base traits for a catcher.  A chatty catcher will sometimes engage and sometimes annoy hitters.  Either way, they are thinking about something else other than the pitcher; that’s a good thing.  Chatty catchers help keep the umpire engaged and develop a relationship.  Getting a grin out a pitcher in a stressful moment helps to relax him.  Chatting also helps keep you focused and not falling asleep behind the plate.
  • The catcher/pitcher relationship does not end on the field:  When an inning is over, players tend to go find their buddies on the team and hang with them.  Remember, no matter what the case outside the ballpark, the pitcher is a catcher’s best buddy. Unless you’re getting ready to hit, spend the time in the dugout talking about the last inning—what was working and what wasn’t.  Go to the coach together and give suggestions (particularly if the coach is calling pitches) as to what pitches and locations seem to be working or if something is making your pitcher uncomfortable.  If it looks like a new pitcher is coming in the game, bring that pitcher together with the last one to share information.
  • Talk catcher-to-catcher: Talk to the other catchers on the team during the game.  You may not catch the whole time, but the catcher who was in the game should be giving information to whomever is coming in about the umpire, the pitcher, and anything you’ve seen in the hitters.  That information is vital and you do no favors to the next guy by having him come in cold.
  • Frame a ball, tell a lie: Umpires will know a clear ball if they see one–it’s usually anything more than 2-3 inches (that’s not much) outside the strike zone.  Any pitch you jerk from far off the plate is a lie you are telling to the umpire and your pitcher.  It makes both of them less trustful of you.  Just catch that ball and quickly throw it back to the pitcher to keep him in rhythm.
  • Move a strike, lose a strike: This is about the hardest thing to do at the same time that you are learning to stay outside the borderline pitches and catch the ball with a slight movement toward the corner of the plate.  If a strike carves the outside corner and you move it toward the middle, you are telling the umpire you think that pitch was outside.  If you catch a pitch crossing over the middle of the plate and you simply follow it as it finishes inside, you’ve turned a strike into a ball.  Same goes for a pitch at the top or the bottom of the strike zone.  For any pitch anywhere in the strike zone, the less movement, the better.  This may be a skill, but it’s also part of the conversation, as by holding a ball in place, you are telling both your pitcher and the umpire to, “check out that beautiful strike.”  Now that’s framing.

Now, you’ll note that this list does not include anything on the “field general” end, such as calling out plays and cuts and such.  I’m just starting that with my catchers, and really want them to get comfortable with the pitch-and-catch aspect of the game, as most coaches will tell you this aspect is about 75% of the job.

Until next time, True Believers!

Hit Like a Ninja

December 5, 2014

This is my method to get kids to understand and get the feel for the complexities of the “load” part of a baseball swing.  I’ve used this a number of times now in classes with great success.  Here’s a story about how I integrated it into practice.

NINJA HITTING
 
STANCE
Inline image 1
Begin by holding the bat like this.  For right-handed hitters, right hand goes on top of the left, hands always touching (reverse for Lefties).  Notice how the elbows are up rather than drooping by the sides.  While eventually the front elbow will (and should) drop, this allows them to approach the plate in a balanced position (and makes them feel all ninja).

TURN THE HEAD,  BOP THE EAR, STEP & PULL
 
Inline image 2
  • TURN: Righties turn their head toward their left shoulder (and, again, vice-versa for lefties).
  • BOP: Then we take our bat and bop our ears with our HANDS, not the bat.  This reminds us to keep our hands high, like our Kung-Fu hippo above.  Remind them to keep the hands high until it’s time to swing.
  • STEP: Now we make our ninja step, which is a side step, not a step forward (righties, step with left foot, lefties, right foot).   (a great tip is to put a piece of tape on the floor, and have them practice their side step by putting their toes on the tape and making their toes stay on the tape as they step rather than stepping over or away from it). Also note that a typical mistake is for the kids to move their back foot backward and think they are taking a step forward.
  • PULL:  Again like our hippo pal, notice how the hands stay high, but pull back straight behind the ear.  This Ninja Hippo is ready to slice the bad guys or beat up that baseball!  Note that you can practice the “Step” and “Pull” separately, but eventually, you’ll want the Step & Pull to happen at the same time. Also notice how the ninja sword is straight up and down.  A traditional mistake is for kids to lay the bat on their shoulder, which causes their hands to drop on the swing and come around the ball, rather than straight to it.

What’s in a Nickname?

April 23, 2014
Rapture at 99 cents a pop.

Rapture at 99 cents a pop.

Now that I’m “coaching for a living” so to speak, I’ve adapted one of my favorite traditions—the post-season party—to a post class celebration where every player gets a certificate of achievement and a prize (usually a “fuzzy fly” puffer ball like we use in class to learn how to keep our eye on the ball by letting it hit us in the nose).  Throw in some juice boxes and bunny crackers, and you’ve got yourself a gala affair.

But what I’ve found most fun is a new wrinkle on the post-season award; giving them something they really need as a ballplayer—their first nickname.  Before this became an official part of the program, the nicknames I gave to some of my players just came out organically.  As my players and parents will tell you, I’m a bit of a stickler for getting my kids to cheer for their teammates from the bench.  I find it keeps them focused on baseball and on the team while they’re waiting their turn, and, as I’ve told my kids in, “The Tale of Gus and Coach Grumpy Pants” (a tale I am writing up and will post here), when you cheer for your teammates, the whole team really does get better.

But simply cheering “BO-BBY!” and “SAR-AH!” over and over can get a bit tedious, so to mix things up, some of our players had natural nicknames.  There was “LU-CKY-LUKE!” “GUN-NAR-MAN!  “SWEET-PETE!” and “GO-GO-AN-TO-NI-O!” to name a few.  But, as a history nerd on top of a baseball one, my very favorite of all time is “TIPPECANOE-AND-TYLER-TOO!”  For as long as he was on the field with me, he became known as “Tippe” rather than Tyler.  It’s always fun to call a kid by a nickname, see her or him turn around, and know that it’s stuck.

Of course, in the case of many of my students, this nickname may well be the first and last time that they hear it.  And, for that reason, I actually spend a little more time than I probably should thinking it out.  Some come pretty naturally as they just roll with the name like Sweet Pete.  But, in this case, I want to make sure that each nickname actually says something about the player, trying to reinforce something positive I saw in them not only as players, but as people.

I can’t say each one is a home run, but some of my faves have included :

  • “Rock”: Strong and solid at every skill, always listening, and someone you can depend on to be there and do his best every time.
    “Whip”: Yes, a great arm, but she’s also always thinking, looking to answer my questions, and help others understand what we were doing in competitions.
  • “Dream”: She plays like a dream, but she is so joyful about everything (“Oh, that sticker is just SO shiny and new!”) that she lives life like it’s a dream.
  • “Magic”: My resident skeptic who chided me when I went to get stickers from my “magic bag of tricks” that there was no such thing.  I told him that I saw magic each and every time he focused and showed me what he could do.  The best kind of magic is baseball magic.
You knew I had to get a Met in there

You knew I had to get a Met in there

Yes, sure, I realize that these may be one-and-done, but there’s something about a nickname, especially a resonant one, that seems to capture the imagination in a way very little else can.  Whether it’s the joy of “Say Hey” Willie Mays, the singular talent of Stan “The Man” Musual or the importance of Tom “The Franchise” Seaver, a nickname is often worth well more than a thousand words.

Indeed, when I went to pick up my son at extended day right before spring break, I ran into two of my former students.  When I quickly made the mistake of calling them by their given names, they were very fast to correct me.  “No coach, call me Dash!” one said.  I made my humble apologies to Dash, and traded fist-bumps with “Great Nate.”  In turn, they reassured me in clamorous unison that they were, “STILL PRACTICING BASEBALL!” and regaled me with so many details of their spring teams that I needed to drag myself out of there to get my guy to his practice.

No doubt, those are the moments that make coaching worthwhile.  Especially given one of those kids really had some trouble staying focused in my class, and on several occasions I needed to discipline him and sit him out for a bit.  To me, that’s proof positive that, as I noted in this post, you can combine discipline with fun, and even the kids that you feel aren’t “getting it” may be getting it more than you ever expected.  But I think that nickname helped to cement all the positive aspects of his time in my class, helping to reflect back on what he did with pride and fun.

And all with just one word.

I think as a coach, there’s real power—power I didn’t expect to have—in that.  This makes it a very interesting and potentially effective tool for every coach to help reinforce individual, positive attributes about the player very quickly, while keeping within the context of teaching a team game.

In my next post, I’ll return to nicknames with the story of the only two players who got the very same moniker—“Cap.”

Nerds in Jockland, Part 1: Basketball Shorts & My Ralphie Parker Moment

December 5, 2013
And they're reversible!

And they’re reversible!

There I was sifting through Target’s website looking for an exact match for the basketball shorts I had just purchased for my big fella. The winter basketball team he’s played on since 3rd Grade, the Vikings, had for reasons I’ve never quite been able to determine always worn a deep green color. Sporting some Sports Authority gift certificates, I couldn’t resist giving Gus the gift of the one pair of forest green Nike hightops despite the fact they broke my three-digit ceiling for sneakers.

And when we found matching socks, I simply couldn’t abide the notion he wouldn’t have a matching pair of shorts as well. So when I was shopping at Target the next week, I found a pair of charcoal gray mesh shorts with a backsplash of neon green, I held it up to the light like a glass of fine wine to see how the colors blended. And when it seemed indeed to combine into that ideal verdant tone, I was as giddy as my 9-year old on the 8th Night of Chanukkah when he received the Geno Smith jersey he had been pining for all week.

So excited was I at finding costume’s end (and at $10, a bargain!) that I began to hoard every corresponding pair off the rack, thinking without thinking that if I bought out the store, the whole team would, for the first time in their storied five-year history, truly be uniform. Heaven forbid that anyone else see me hold up these holy grails of basketball perfection and steal one away! But before I rushed to the checkout line, I noticed that the crotch of the XS shorts in my cart would probably need to be split in half in order for it to fit over one leg of the average 12-year-old.

And so after having the rare good sense to speak to an employee, I did as he suggested and found the shorts online. Immediately after finding the link, my fingers flew an email to Coach Lindsay, telling her I’d have Gus model the shorts at practice and if she liked them she could suggest everyone get a pair. I noted that I’d even volunteer to do the group purchase to save the money on shipping.

See?  The neon TOTALLY works!

See? The neon TOTALLY works!

When Gus arrived at practice, I tore through the box of brand-new Vikings jerseys and helped Gus to put his on—much to his pubescent consternation. I beckoned Lindsay over to take a look, noting that the splash of neon green would give them a, “Seattle Seahawks kind of look.” “Great!” she smiled. “That looks pretty good!” I kept grinning as she attempted to extricate herself back to her players.

And it was then that I realized those $10 shorts were nothing more than the massive fruit basket Ralphie Parker plops down at the desk of his teacher in A Christmas Story in the quest for his Red Rider BB Gun. Coach Lindsay was forced into the role of Miss Shields, humoring her student uncomfortably as he basks just a few beats too long in the over-the-top glow of his own generosity.

Oh sweet mother of Spock, I am such a N-E-R-D.

Yep, that pretty much sums me up

Yep, that pretty much sums me up.

When my zealous moments give way to the reality that, perhaps, not everyone shares the passion for a pair of basketball shorts, a baseball cap that corresponds to the state bird, or a specialized jersey that harkens back to area Negro League lineage quite as, uh, intensely as I do, there’s always that flash of humiliation.

I’m 7-years-old at Shea Stadium, hearing the laughter of drunken fans mocking me for, “Wearing Yankees pants!” because I desperately wanted pinstripes to match my Mets jersey, but the closest color at the store was navy.

I’m 13 and walking through the Omni hotel in my home-made Dr. Who outfit, comprised of a generously-collared paisley felt shirt adorned with question marks pinned to the collar, partially covered in an oversized black, yellow, and white checked jacket—both unearthed from my father’s disco collection. To top it off, I sported a frayed straw gardening hat with a green visor. I walked, people laughed, and I took 3rd place in the costume contest—out of 3 participants.

I’m 17 and the Woodward Academy basketball star has just ripped my copy of Marvel Secret Wars out of my hand. He waves it around, speaking in a high pitched nasal tone. The words were irrelevant! as I had heard them all before, but my baseball “teammates” showed up to salt the wound with a taunting chant of my given nickname—“Photon”—made just a twinge more painful in that southern “FAW-tawn!” twang that this son-of-a-carpetbagger did not possess.

But, you know what? That Ratatouille flashback is indeed a flash. As I’ve realized that the nerdy passion I bring to my kids’ sports may be the exception, but I think it should be the rule. Indeed, one of the current Kings of the Nerds, Will Wheaton, actually expressly mentioned sports when he gave his now virally famous response to a question at a Sci-Fi convention, when a pregnant woman asked him to speak to her unborn child and say why being a Nerd is awesome:

So there’s gonna be a thing in your life that you love. And I don’t know what it’s gonna be. It might be sports, it might be science, it might be reading, it might be fashion design, it might be building things, it might be telling stories or getting pictures. It doesn’t matter what it is. The way you love that, and the way that you find other people who love it the way you do is what makes being a nerd awesome… The defining characteristic that ties us all together is that we love things… we come from all over some cases all over the world so we can be around people who love the things that we love the way that we love them. And that’s why being a nerd is awesome. And don’t ever let anyone tell you that that thing that you love, is a thing that you can’t love. Don’t ever let anyone tell you “You can’t love that, that’s for boys. You have to love this because you’re a girl.”. You find the things that you love, and you love them the most that you can.

I would say courtesy of TJ Arrowsmith, but taking this picture was just rude...

Courtesy of TJ Arrowsmith, though courtesy is pushing it

That’s me, Scott Nathanson—Nerd. And the only thing I’d argue with ole’ Wesley Crusher about is the implication that we Nerds need to find people like ourselves to love the things we love. I get it, given the taunts and bullying that so often comes with being a Nerd. I think that makes it that much more incumbent on we grown-up Nerds to be out there sharing the way we love things with others—especially our kids.

In my next post, I’ll tell you a horror story that explains exactly why I believe we Nerds need to put away our pocket protectors, pull up our socks and shorts just a little bit too high, and go take over youth sports.