A few weeks ago, I was in the middle of refinancing one of our rental properties. When he pulled my credit, my mortgage broker forgot to press the magic "no-spam" button, and all hell broke loose.

Equifax and Experian sold me out, making me a target for the guys who run their mortgage business like a telemarketing company. For days on end, my phone rang incessantly.

Over 50 calls each day for the first few days, finally trickling down to 15 or 20 per day until it ended about two weeks later.

Maddening, of course.

A few days into that ordeal, I was in the truck with Sam at Marvin Ridge High, where we'd just watched his sister's track meet. As soon as we'd loaded up, my phone rang again.

And I lost it.

I cussed that guy up one side and down the other, told him he was a useless piece of shit, and worked in a few other insults for good measure.

I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and looked at Sam, who I'd all but forgotten was there.

He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to.

The look on his face told me everything.

Fast forward to this past Saturday at the ballfield.

When the runner on 2nd tried to steal third, he found himself in a pickle. During the rundown, the second baseman overthrew the ball intended for 3rd, and things got a little sideways.

It all had to do with a bucket upon which the visiting team's assistant coach was seated during the play.

The home coach started hollering that the ball had hit the bucket, so the runner was to be automatically advanced to the home plate even though the 3rd baseman had picked it up and tagged the runner.

The visiting coach claimed that the ball had hit the leg of the assistant coach, not the bucket itself, so the tag was fair, and the runner was out.

This back-and-forth went on for a couple of minutes until the umpire, who'd previously made no calls related to the bucket, announced that the ball had hit the bucket and, therefore, the runner advances to home.

Or maybe he said the ball didn't hit the bucket, so the runner was out.

I am trying to remember because things were happening fast by this point.

Now the visiting coach has called time and approached the umpire mid-field to discuss.

First, there was the exchanging of words.

Then there was the exchanging of heated words.

And then, in a mind-blowing moment during which I was sure that I was dreaming and not physically present at an actual little league game, the umpire ejected the coach.

Ejected!

From a little league game!

Afterward, in the parking lot, Sam was in stitches. It having been the opposing coach who was removed, Sam thought it was funny.

Apparently, all the boys did.

I had been sitting about 5 feet from the bucket in question, and, for the record, I don't think the ball hit the bucket.

But that doesn't matter.

The point of little league baseball isn't to win at all costs. There are no championship rings, million-dollar sponsorships, or high stakes of any sort riding on these games.

The point of little league is for these boys to have fun while they learn about teamwork and sportsmanship.

Generally, our coaches do a great job. They are a fantastic group of guys who do a great job reminding the boys about fun, teamwork, and sportsmanship.

But I have to wonder.

When Sam looks back on this - the last game of the season - will he remember the game's challenges? Will he remember that he struck out nine batters or that his teammate hit a grand slam?

Or will he remember a coach who had a meltdown over an obscure rule and got ejected from the game?

I still don't quite understand the "bucket rule," and don't know if it was the right call.

But I do know one thing.

My children rarely, if ever, do what I say.

But they frequently, almost always, do as I do.

And they are always watching.

If my response to the telemarketer in the truck that day with Sam was any indication, I needed a reminder of this.

Got it, coach.