What Happened to Sportsmanship? Part One

Last night was game one of the playoffs in my son's Little League. And before I get into this, I appreciate the coaches. They give a lot of time to these boys, and they do the best they can with what, at times, is seemingly impossible.

But there is a problem with the culture.

A BIG problem.

Early on, some things didn't sit quite right with me. In Sam's first season, I wrote about how all the kids showed up on day one with $150 specialized backpacks, with some already toting $300 bats.

Sam got an old backpack with his brother's name on it for that first season, but by season two, I relented.

He's in two leagues now and either plays or practices six days a week during the spring and fall seasons.

When he shows up on the field, he looks like a pro. He's issued both a game and a practice jersey for one team, and for the other, there's the addition of both home & away jerseys.

Along with that, he's got a complete set of catcher's gear, two bats, a helmet, gloves, fancy backpack - all of it.

He's rolling about $2,000 deep when he hits the field, and at the top of his Christmas list is a $450 bat that he can't even use until next fall when he'll age out of rec leagues and move into the middle school team.

He's a great player; pitching 53mph at age 12 is certainly an accomplishment, and he plays three other positions just as well.

So I don't mind the money, per se.

And I love to watch him play ball.

Still, Little League has lost its direction. Where the focus should be on sportsmanship and fun, it's on winning & gear.

There's so little focus on sportsmanship that the kids are often allowed to throw their gear and loudly complain that the umpire sucks.

As parents, it isn't easy to do anything about it unless you want to take your kid out of ball altogether. The days of the coach having a couple of bats, a few helmets, and a handful of balls are long gone.

Personal gear is required.

And we're asked, at the outset of the season, to "leave the coaching to the coaches."

That is, we're asked to sit back and watch. Don't interfere, and don't coach from the sidelines.

That puts us in a precarious position.

How do I tell Sam to mind his coach and teach him that throwing his gear and complaining that umpire sucks is unacceptable (when it is, in fact, acceptable in the league) at the same time?

To do so would be saying, "Listen to your coach when he does X, but not when he does Y."

What sense would that make?

Last night was a mess.

Sam, who is by far the best player on this team, was on the mound throwing his hands up in desperation at every error his teammates made.

There was a lot of "what's wrong with you guys?" and not nearly enough "come on guys, we've got this!!!!"

Where he should have been (and can, and does) acting like a leader, he was acting anything but.

I couldn't believe the coach didn't bench him, but it's the playoff, remember? So winning matters most.

By the top of what would be the last inning, as Sam was taking the field, I told him I'd had enough.

He's struck out on his last at-bat, and came off the field throwing his bat.

Then, his helmet.

Next, his batting gloves.

Then he pitched a fit, screamed that he hated the game, hated the umpire, and was never coming back.

For good measure, he kicked the fence a few times.

"You can act this way if you want," I said calmly, "but I'm not sticking around to watch."

Then I left.

I stopped in the parking lot to write a letter to Sam, reinforcing what a good player he is and clarifying why I'd left.

By the time I cranked the truck, the final score was in. We'd been down 9 points just a few innings back, but a strong rally had brought the game closer.

On the drive home, I couldn't help but think how much better the outcome could have been.

I also struggled with my decision to leave the game.

Will Sam get the message?

It was a calculated risk that I'm not sure will pay off. This morning, he didn't take my call before school.

He's 12, so I'm sure he's mad at me.

But hopefully, the words I shared with him will sink in, and he'll come to understand.

Tomorrow, I'll share those words with you.

Or maybe Monday. I'm heading to the mountains later today.