“Widen your stance. Keep your weight on your back leg. Step forward as you swing.” I went through our ad hoc checklist before I began pitching to my eight-year-old son, Zach. He’d shown tremendous improvement over the last few years, but he still wasn’t quite ready for the big jump from “coach pitch” baseball to the next level, where he’d face opposing players on the mound.
“Let the power come from your legs. Swing through the ball. You have to get your whole body into it.” I continued spewing out a string of what I considered helpful tips. My fingers loosely gripped the seams of the well-used baseball. I knew he could make contact, but I wanted to see it go farther. Today was all about power.
I glanced down as I prepared to let the first pitch fly and I could tell he was absorbing every word. I wound up and let the ball go. Contact, but not enough power. The next pitch sailed toward the plate. Better. I glanced down. My sidekick was nearly ready too. Although only 16 months old, Justin wasn’t about to be outdone by his big brother. He knew what I was saying.
The yellow plastic bat rested on the little guy's shoulder. “Ball, ball,” Justin pleaded repeatedly. I tossed one his way, careful to hit the bat right on the sweet spot. There was no need to swing; besides, his miniature size wouldn’t allow it. My pitch was right on. The ball deflected off the bat and trickled back toward me.
The grin said it all. Like it or not, he was ready. “Hold on,” I instructed as I wound up and delivered another pitch to Zach at home plate. A mighty swing, but no contact.
“Ball, ball.” The voice was cheerfully optimistic. I tossed another one his way, hitting my target once again. Turning my attention back to home plate, I recapped my earlier instructions. “Weight back, swing through.” The pitch was right down the middle, the hit equally impressive. I looked up as the ball sailed over my head and landed beyond second base. “That’s more like it!”
“Ball!” It was a demand this time, not a request. Another toss to the side, another gentle tap from the plastic bat.
“Well, Buddy,” I said to my eldest. “Looks like you're ready for the batting cages.” The next afternoon was a team practice at the cages. An outfielder started things off in the fast cage while our first baseman kicked it off in the slower one. The boys cycled through, each working on his own technique.
“Ball, ball!” I glanced down. The little guy was ready too. A pilfered batting helmet, complete with face mask, bobbled on his tiny head while a bat twice his size scraped along behind him. He toddled to the fast cage and began climbing the chain-link gate, reaching for the latch.
“Not yet, little dude,” I said. “Come with me.” The grassy area was small, but so was my batter. With the heavy aluminum bat propped on his shoulder and an entire girls’ softball team from the next set of cages as an audience, he waited for me to begin tossing balls his way. The first pitch was perfect, gently ricocheting off the bat and onto the soft grass.
The girls went crazy. “That is so cute!” they squealed as they cheered the little guy on. Their approval wasn’t lost on the junior all-star. Another pitch. Contact. A huge smile. Applause. A contagious laugh. A pitch. A smile. Applause. A bigger laugh.
“You’re doing great,” I said, as I pulled the helmet off his head. “Let’s just give it a few more years.” A high five. Another laugh.
