Life Lessons for My Guys, Part 1

As I find myself newly surrounded by little fellers (Paddy Mac, Luke, Jack, the future Rrthur Jr), my thoughts have turned to what I can teach these boys. I wanna take things one step at a time and obviously the first thing these guys will ever do that matters, other than cut my grass, is Little League, so I thought I’d pass on some advice. From the ages of 8-12, this should be their life.


1) First and foremost – don’t eat the coach’s chewing tobacco. I know you think it’s cool – not only does Coach do it, but real ballplayers do too, right?

No. How can it be cool if some dipshit who is spending his weekends slapping little kids’ asses and treating them to McDonald’s is doing it? (And yes, I know the correct repsonse here would be to drop in a “what are they, priests?” joke. Yes, you’re a genius, please move on to your next Michael Jackson joke.) Your coach will prolly be some dud insurance salesman who never got to play when HE was in Little League, and coaching affords him the luxury of bossing kids around, feeling important, and getting out of the house and away from his nagging wife who has not slept with him in 7 years. Take one look at his too-tight coach’s shorts, the whistle around his neck and his station wagon with the “WWJD?” bumper sticker and think to yourself “Maybe this isn’t the cat I need to be emulating.” Who do you need to be copying? Well, obviously Kelly Leak. Driving a moterbike and smoking on the field while telling the coach to go fuck himself is the Hat Trick of LL bad-asses. Of course, it helps if you’re the greatest LL ever on earth, as Kelly leak was, but hey. And don’t think for a minute about Coach’s platitudes about treating everyone the same and that the star of the team can’t get away with that stuff. Please. I promise you, if you’re the best player on the team, you can smoke Newports at short while telling the coach to shut the fuck up and if you’re cranking out 3 dingers a game he’ll be buying you the latest Xbox while bribing his teenage daughters to come on to you to keep you happy. Sure, you’re only ten years old so all you know about girls is teasing them and pulling their hair, but by midseason you’ll have figured it out and will be stuffing her from behind while making her eat a live mouse like an old pro.

2) Also, since you’re the stud of the team you’ll surely wanna pitch, so don’t panic on that first day of practice when the Coach tries to insert his goofball kid as the pitcher. Just wait it out; within 20 minutes he’ll be reduced to a shivering puddle of boy-piss as he tries to endure his dad screaming at him to get the ball to the plate while everyone on the team is laughing at him, therefore setting himself up for a high school career of having no friends, having boy-boobs and getting caught jerking off in the locker room bathroom at least once. Yes, he will probably go on to reinvent Microsoft and marry one of the Olsen twins, but he will never ever forget those 20 minutes – the shame of his inadequecy forcing his dad’s neck to bulge with veins as he screams at Skippy to “throw it over the plate goddammit son!!!!!!!” while the fellas are behind him, lolling on the grass and calling him a pussy “like his pussy fucking dad.” HELLO future dalliance into homosexuality!! So don’t worry, after they drag this kid whose life is over off the mound you can coolly stroll up and start throwing darts past kids. You’ll be the star of the team and the Coach will fawn over you as he spends the next four years feeding hot dogs to Skippy on the bench while you’re carried off the field on the teams shoulders. Such is life.

3) Another thing you need to do is make sure your star status is shrouded in some mystique. You’re the star, you don’t need to be hangin out with all the other guys all summer. Don’t go to the fucking Dairy Queen and play grab-ass with these chuckleheads – why would they be scared of you on the field? We had a guy in the league when I played, his name was Peterbuck. This guy was a legend wrapped in a myth wrapped in a blue Indians jersey. I never saw Peterbuck in school. I have no idea where Peterbuck lived – insert the “I thought they just flew you in for games” line from Fast Times at Ridgemont High here. He threw a fastball that would top out at, say, 185mph and by the age of 10 he threw a curve that rolled off the table, got the morning paper, did the Jumble! and then would knock you on your ass. And when he wasn’t mowing us down he was clubbing dingers to depths of the outfied none of us even realized existed. Our moms would drive us to the games and work the concessions stand during the games; Peterbuck would roll up to the dugout shaving in the rear-view mirror as he parked. I don’t ever remember Peterbuck speaking to any of us. After the game had ended and we’d have to line up to slap hands with the other team “goodgamegoodgamegoodgamegamegamegamegame…” there’d be no Peterbuck in line. Already gone. But I think my FAVORITE part of the whole Peterbuck myth looking back is not the actual games themselves, not his actual playing, but the hysteria that would be created like clockwork the week before we were to face him. We played the Indians twice a year for each of my four Little League seasons, and EVERY FUCKING TIME LIKE CLOCKWORK a rumor would spread about 4 days before the game: Peterbuck had thrown out his arm throwing a rubber ball and can’t pitch!!! Every single time, we fell for this fucking story. Somehow, “somebody” would learnt his tidbit and the story would work itself throughout the county…which, looking back is also fairly incredible since we all live 20 miles from each other and I don’t remember once calling another Tiger on the phone…but by gameday we’d all be worked up in a lather – the unbeatable Peterbuck had totally trashed his arm by throwing a rubber ball against a wall for hours and would only be able to watch helpless as we Tigers rounded the bases all day, FINALLY beatng the hated Indians!!!!

Then he’d take the mound. Ha! We’d all laugh, incredulous that they’d even let him try to pitch. “This is gonna be funny!” Then he’d start warming up. Strange, we’d look at each other nervously, he seems to be…throwing pretty hard…..really hard…oh, God, no…

Next thing you know he’s throwing darts past us as we all bail outta the batter’s box like a blind date. But we fell for it EVERY time, and THAT, little ones, is myth-making. That’s how you need to be – it’s not enough to be the best; you have to put the fear of Harry Potter into these kids, they shouldn’t even think of you as human, much less a class-mate.

4) If you find yourself playing the outfield you need to quit, cause that means you suck and all you’re doing is embarrassing me. I don’t really know why if you play like a schoolgirl goof who’s blind in LL they stick you in the outfield, whereas the first they do starting in high school if you can hit the shit outta the ball and have a cannon for an arm is put you in the outfield. Oh well. But yeah, if Coach ever tells you to go to the outfield, tell him to go fuck himself and light up a Lucky Strike before walking outta the dugout and I’ll take ya for your first beer. Yes, I know you’re only eight years old, quit being a pussy. And you’ll hafta drive. burp.

5) Another thing I liked to do during a game is “position the outfield.” This means that during important, tense situations in the game I’d turn to the outfield and start waving, directing them to go left or right. “Go back…now over….over…no no, back…over…right there!!!” People watching in the stands will think “hey, that kid knows what he’s doing, he’s a leader, he’s The Man!” Of course none of the outfielders have moved an inch since they a) are retarded b) have no idea what you’re trying to say anyway c) are too busy pissing themselves and praying to God the ball doesn’t get hit to them, so they’re a little too busy to react to your machinations. But you’ll look impressive doing it!

And a bonus:

Chicks aren’t watching, so don’t bother thinking you’ll impress some skirt you’re into. You can go 4 for 4, pitch a no-hitter, she won’t know any different than if you had just played the worst game in the history of Little League. You know what WILL impress her and get you in them Care Bear shorts? Flingin a beer bottle outta Uncle Xmastime’s Festiva as you catch rubber peelin outta the parkin lot after telling the Coach to go fuck himself amid a cloud of Lucky Strikes. Now play ball, fuckface!!!