My
daughters’ fastpitch softball has been over for about a month now. The season
ends way too soon for me.
This was
the year they would have more talent than any other year before. A team of
strong bats, and team of strong defensive players. But for some reason the team
never got on that roll we were all waiting for.
Both my
daughters played for this team.
A team of
16 year old's with the exception of my daughter Ashley-Rae who didn’t turn 15
until the final week of the provincial championships.
Ash had a
break out year, earning outright the second base position. And moving
up to the top half of the batting order. She made clutch hits, she made clutch
plays.
Alannah –
my eldest – did not pitch her best this year. She blamed a tough school year,
her new part-time job, and my inability to catch her pitching practice due to a
leg infection I fought off the first half of summer.
Excuses.
Teenage girls.
There were
some highlights – at least for me as a sideline dad.
There was
the beautiful double plays from Alannah at third to Ashley-Rae at second to
McKay at first. I got one of them on video – well – I have the ground
underneath the plays on video – I was too busy watching.
There was
Alannah’s home run – which I also have on video – a hard swing at a fastball up
around the letters she caught square on the barrel. In the video it looks
effortless – all she was looking for was a line drive for a base hit, but it
flew over the right center field fence with barely an arc.
There was
another game in Toledo – the girls playing an elite Michigan team – down by
three – with Ashley-Rae hitting a line shot off the fence in left field to
bring in two runs – followed by Alannah hitting a line drive the opposite way
to right off the fence to bring in two more – one of them being Ash.
Great
moments for this Dad.
In my years
of being a Dad on the sidelines I have mastered the ability to cheer humbly for
such things – cheering for the team, not for my girls – I do that privately
with them when it’s over. And never to be the loudest parent cheering. The
humbler the better.
This year
we also had some coaching challenges. One of the coaches was the boyfriend of
the manager. Our manager was and still is a great player in her own right in
her own day, and just now coming into her own with this squad of four years
together. I hold her in the highest regard. One day she was running the bases
as the team was working on those “where to throw the ball under what circumstances”
situation defensive skills sessions. In a run down, one of the girls tried to
make her throw too quick and caught the manager right in the mouth. A hard
thrown ball, the manager couldn’t hide her pain. As she went to the side to
recover, the boyfriend coach gathered the group into the middle and used every
swear word in the book to chew the group out for this accident.
Every word
you could imagine was used.
Every
parent attending behind the fences heard every word of the obscenity lased
diatribe strung together as only swearwords can be that makes no sense but gets
the anger across.
That was
never forgotten.
In the
following weeks – one night sitting outside the hotel in Toledo, I asked the
boyfriend coach about this over a beer.
“I have
been to many clinics and workshops and listened to many great coaches talk
about being a great coach”, he said justifying, “and they all say that you
should be very supportive during games – but a real prick in practice”.
“And you
think this works then?” I inquired – suggesting he should re-think his
pontification.
“I have
coached elite boys in hockey and baseball …” he started.
“I have
coached and raised girls”, I replied, “and that shit don’t work with girls”.
“Well it’s
getting late”, he said, and went back inside.
I tried.
We had yet
another challenge this year as well. My wonderful cousin whom I consider a niece
although she considers me a cousin was getting married. We received the
invitation the summer before, and my girls – never having been to a wedding yet
– were very excited. The date was a Sunday in late July.
It was in
Kitchener, Ontario.
Shortly
after we received the wedding invitation, the date was announced for the next provincial
grand championships. It was that same weekend – the final games to be played on
that Sunday. But which town in Ontario was going to host them was still
unknown.
“It’ll work
out – it always does” I told the girls, because it’s true.
In late
April the decision was made that the Grands would be held in Stratford – a tiny
town known to the world for its Shakespearean plays … and yeah … it’s the home
of Justin Bieber.
Stratford
is only 45 minutes away from Kitchener. And since hotels in Stratford in the
summer are so hard to get – we would stay in Kitchener.
“There ya
go”, I said to the girls.
“Great Dad,
but we will be playing Sunday, we are better team this year, and we always make
it to the Sunday final bracket”.
“It’ll work
out”, I promised. “It always does”.
The week
before Grands, the girls played in a warm-up tournament in Brantford, Ontario,
the home of The Great One … Wayne Gretzky.
At sometime
early in that tournament the coaches were warned for “chirping the umps” from
the bench. It was the boyfriend coach – the one who was being supportive of the
girls during games. Balls and strike and safe and out calls were all being
questioned.
After that
first game, the team received a “bench warning” sometime during that first
inning of each game following. The word was out, the umpires were not putting
up with this guy.
Games were
played – more lost than won, and we exited Branford early Sunday morning.
The next
weekend – we headed to Stratford.
The truck
was loaded down with ball equipment and canopies and lawn chairs and coolers
and medical bags and suitcases – and dress bags and make-up kits and suit
bags. Twice our normal cargo – because we had a big wedding to go to.
The first
inning of the first game, our pitcher was throwing fine, but no strikes were
getting called on close pitches. The boyfriend coach chirped. The bench warning
was administered. These were the same umpires from last weekend.
The
Saturday afternoon game came due. The girls had to win this game to earn a spot
into the Sunday bracket. A record of three losses and no wins of course put them below the
cut-line. A win here might still get them in to the bottom seed.
In the
first inning – they hit our starting pitcher hard, and after she took a hard line drive
off the knee cap, she was done and injured on the bench. Alannah came into
pitch – knowing that she would not get a strike called unless she threw it
right down the middle of the plate. Balls on the corners, drop balls and risers
were all called balls. So as hard as she could she threw fastballs down the
middle. And they hit her all over park too.
Finally the
boyfriend coach said something about a pitch that caught the inside corner. The
ump stepped from behind the plate and took two steps towards the dugout and
said “It was this far inside“, holding his fingers an exaggerated distance
apart.
“Sure it
was” mumbled the boyfriend coach.
“You’re
outta here!” screamed the ump who whirled around with his arm in the air.
The manager
stepped out to try to talk to the ump – but before she got both feet on the field
he whirled back around and yelled “You too!”
With both
the manager and the boyfriend coach gone, our remaining two coaches – both with
more experience alone had than most of the opposing managers and coaches in the tournament, led
our girls to a comeback – rallies were countered by the other team’s rallies.
Great defensive plays on both sides. And the gap was being closed by our girls.
But no close calls went our way, and the strike zone for our pitchers remained
the size of a keyhole. And in the end – our girls fell short. But not for lack
of trying, and not for lack heart.
And it was
over. They were done on the Saturday afternoon.
And in the
car, Alannah muttered “well, at least we know we can go to the wedding”.
“I told you
it would work out darlin’, it always works out.”
The wedding
was awesome, but that deserves a story of its own.
