Newsletter #5: A Braves World Series Win and My Mom the Little League Coach
Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!
The Braves just won the World Series! I grew up baseball obsessed and despite “leaving” the game almost 20 years ago (the steroids era burned me hard), this Series was super fun to watch because I spent significant portions of my childhood playing baseball in both cities (I was born in Houston and raised in Atlanta).
When I was growing up in Houston, I played little league baseball at Parkwood Little League near Beltway 8 about 25 miles north of downtown Houston. The ballpark had a distinctive Bad News Bears feel to it. It was a small park with no frills, a simple concession stand, 4 fields, and gigantic bill board that conveniently served as the ideal place for little boys to play Wall Ball, a game that involves pelting each other with tennis balls as hard as you could. The 80s man, they were pretty great.
The “commissioner” of the league was Mr. Hicks, a big gruff looking man who at first glance looked intimidating but definitely had a softer side. My dad would occasionally make it to our games depending on his work schedule but since he was often not there, Mr. Hicks would keep an eye on my brother and me, lending us equipment or helping my mom out when he could.
I had played in the league for a few years, long enough for my mom to become well known as a great team mom, helper, coordinator, bringer of snacks, and all the things you expect of a little league mom in the 80s. She was also feisty, opinionated, and out of her damn mind. It was this willingness to “speak her mind” that led her to be the head coach of my 4th grade little league team despite not knowing a goddamn thing about baseball.
It was 1988 and my younger brother Andy and I were *finally* in the same level of little league where we could end up on the same team. Before the season, there was a draft where coaches were selected, teams drafted, and parents were called letting them know what team their kids would be on. Andy and I waited and waited to see what team would we be on. No call ever came. What was going on? In swooped Mama Daph to call Mr. Hicks to get to the bottom of the issue.
“Daphne, both your boys are on the Indians. But there’s no coach. We’ll get back with you”
“No coach? How could there be no coach?!”
“Well we just don’t have one”
“This is ridiculous Ed (Mr. Hicks)”
“Well if you think it’s so easy, you coach”
“Fine, I will!” She came into the living room to tell Andy and me were on the same team. YES!!!! And then she told us she was the coach. “You mean the team mom?” “No, the coach”. Our mom, single and raising her two youngest kids on her own, had somehow volunteered to be our baseball coach.
Throughout the season we had a random array of actual coaches leading our team. Mrs. Phillips, another mom in our neighborhood helped out. Some sketchy looking dude who I can’t name, helped occasionally too. But the bulk of the coaching fell on my oldest brother, Chris. I’ve written about him extensively in the newsletter and on my website but Chris is 11 years older than me and easily the least reliable person I’ve ever known. The only thing that separated Coach Buttermaker from Bad News Bears and my brother is the considerable age difference and that my brother did all his drinking in the car before practice instead of *at* practice (though he probably did that too).
My favorite memory of this sorry excuse (but memorable!) season is one practice all the kids were loitering around the field waiting on a coach to show up. My brother was the assigned “coach” that day and showed up a bit late. Naturally, he forgot to bring all of the little league baseball equipment we needed for practice but was well loaded with his slow pitch softball gear. Imagine handing elementary school age kids adult size softballs, and instead of a 20” bat that weighs 16 oz you would get a 34” bat that weighs 32 oz. We looked like barbarians wandering around the field, waving adult size weapons having no idea what we were doing.
The kicker on this particular day was when I was helping Chris round up balls during batting practice. He was indiscriminately swinging the bat, hitting them to kids quasi paying attention in the field when a ball came off the bat at a funny angle and clipped me right in the eye. I fell to the ground, a black eye likely already forming from the fucking SOFTBALL that my brother had brought for a bunch of 10 and 11 year olds to practice with. The indignity of the season summed up with my older brother, the not coach accidentally hitting me in the eye with a softball when no one was actually paying attention to him.
I can’t remember the final record of that season, but we were bad. So bad. My mom did the best job she could. She cheered us on, sat on the bench, organized coaches for us, and all around left such an amazing impression on me. Baseball was super special to me for the next 15 years, a good bit of it because of that park and that season on the Indians.
When the talk of heroes comes around, I inevitably think of single moms. My mom was always there for us, always willing to come to some event, bring some treats, sit with us at lunch, or coach our little league baseball team.