More From "The Umpire Has A Mullet".

When the boys hit third grade, the park we were at allowed the kids to pitch to each other.

Out here is West Cobb, they just seem to grow them bigger. I mean, third graders wearing size 11 shoes. Third graders that have facial hair. Third graders that were, um, taller than me.

I am 5’6”. I did not choose this height. It’s not like I went into a store and said, “Gee I think I’ll be short because you can always find clothes in your size.”

No, height is all of part of what I call, “The Manis Theory of Relativity”. That is, if your parents are short, you will be short.

It was real disconcerting to me to walk up to an eight year old that is already 5’9” and in a size 11 shoe and hear him talk about how mean Angelica is to Tommy Pickle. I thought he should be talking about stocks and bonds.

Our team that year was The Facility Group Angels, sponsored by the building and design firm that my wife works for. My company, FarrotFace Insurance would not sponsor a team because they were protective of their company’s image, except when it came time to close offices and move those jobs to India where people with thick Indian accents answer the phone and tell you their name is Ashely, when you know good and well it isn’t. Not that I’m bitter.

Anyway, this was going to be an important year for us because this is when Ben wasn’t going to be at the mercy of the pitching problems of an adult. Plus the kids were going to be able to steal. And our head coach’s name was Doug.

At our first practice, I was watching all of our players and thought they looked like a good bunch of third graders. I then looked over to field next to us and watched another group of third graders practicing. Except they did not look like third graders. They looked like college sophomores. I had a feeling our team was going to be in trouble that year.

I was a little apprehensive too, because this was the year people started dropping out of baseball.

I was never one of those parents who forces my kid to do anything except eat,sleep, bathe, go to school, brush his teeth, and lay around the house watching “Rocco’s Modern Life.” Okay, I did force my kid to listen to a Bob Dylan CD, once. But, hey, it was “Love and Theft”, a pretty good album. Besides, he was still in his Backstreet Boys/N’Sync phase at the time. Girls, you didn’t know he listen to the Backstreet Boys? Oh, he did alright.

But I really wanted him to play baseball mainly because if he quit it would reflect that I am a gigantic wiennie. Plus, I wanted him to grow into a professional baseball player that would make millions of dollars batting .245. I think I also had a SUV dream in there too. Maybe even a shoe commercial.


The fly in the ointment was in the previous fall ball season Ben faced live kid pitching and did not get a single hit.

Hitting was always a problem for Ben. One time, when he was in first grade, I decided to take him to the back yard and throw him some batting practice with tennis balls. Bumpkis. Did not hit a single pitch. The Norman Rockwell painting of “Dad Throw Batting Practice To A First Grader” was soon replaced by a modern art painting called “Dad Screaming ‘Watch The Dang Ball With Kid Answering ‘I Am!’. I grew weary of this and decided to take another tactic.

I got on my knees maybe ten to fifteen from him and said, “Now Ben, I’m going to under hand you the ball and you hit it”. My plan was to get his confidence back by letting him hit some balls, then back up a little bit further at a time until I could go back pitching at my regular spot.

First ball: BOOM! Hits the ball solid and it hits me square on the face. I was wearing glasses at the time-the glasses went straight in the air. I went straight back. I did not know a first grader could hit a tennis ball so hard.

Ben, of course, thought this was the funniest thing he ever saw. I’m sure that this had happened more often in a game, he would have enjoyed it better.

The first game of the Real season (fall ball doesn’t count) comes and it is in March. It is one of those weird March days in which it feels like December. It had to be 35 degrees. Some kids were playing with their winter coats on.

We were playing the team with the Famous Man on it.

When I was growing up, I knew nobody that was on TV or played professional sports. Everyone I knew either worked at Lockheed or in some way was involved in the Ministry.

Now, as an adult, I’ve met several ex-professional athletes and several people that have jobs on TV. Famous Man had a sportscasting job on TV and he is everything I am not: Tall, good looking, and rich. He had a good tan, too

He drove a huge SUV. One of those SUVs that takes up a lane and a half and has a truck in front of it with a sign reading “Wide Load”. This SUV had leather everything, including wind shield wipers. It also had two DVD/TV sets and a Starbucks. This guy was as loaded as a concrete bag.

My favorite story about this guy took place the previous fall. The Atlanta Braves were making their annual run at the World Series and part of the Famous Man’s job was to cover the Series for his Network. But, one thing I will give Famous Man: he always tried to make his kid’s game, which I thought was great, because if I was that Tall, good looking, rich, with a huge car, the last place I would be is at a Recreational baseball park.

So, we are having this game going on and in walks Famous Man.

This is 1999. The male fashion was black on black, like Regis Philben, which shows you how nuts things were back then: we were taking our fashion cues from Regis Philben.

Famous Man was wearing black on black on black. He had a black suit, black tie, black shirt, black overcoat, and he was wearing black sunglasses. Johnny Cash would have told him to add a splash of color. He looked like the Little League Coach of The Matrix.

Fast Forward to the spring of 2000 and we’re playing in the awful cold. Famous Man is wearing a long sleeve black t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts. His team looks pretty good and the Facility Group Angles look pretty bad.

The other team’s pitcher is a hard throwing left hander. First pitch, Ben hit a line drive up the middle for a base hit. I’m seeing million dollar contracts. Maybe I could buy a car like the Famous Man.

However, during this season, Ben got three other hits. Two of those were bunts. In the same game.

Not that it was that bad. In the first year of kid pitch, any hit is a good hit because a kid rarely gets anything good to hit.

The pitchers are assigned by this athletic survey: “Hey, can Tater pitch?” Actually, the way kids become pitchers is through e-mails, phone calls, and personal confrontations between the parents and the coach wanting to know when Tater is going to pitch.

Hey Coach!!!*

Great game!! Too bad we lost 40-0!!! Maybe you could try Tater at pitcher, just to see if he can do it. Then maybe your kid wouldn’t blubber like a girl on the mound.

Tater’s Mom


Tater’s Mom,

I have Tater scheduled to pitch against the Smith’s Foods DBA Blimpies Devil Rays. For the record, my Shane was not crying—he got some dirt in his eye which triggered his tuberculosis.

Coach Bob



Coach Bob!!


We have already played the Devil Rays!!! You are a dimwit!!!! Here’s a riddle: What’s fat and has spider veins??? Your wife!!!!!

Tater’s Mom


Tater’s Mom,

I got a riddle for you: What to you call a man that sleeps with other men? Tater’s Dad.


This goes on and on for days until coach Bob and Tater’s mom have a cuss fight in front of the concession stand. Tater and his folks go to another park where, at least according to Tater’s mom in their annual Christmas card, Tater is the STAR PLAYER (!!!)



The strike zone in first year kid pitch is eye brows to the ankles. Unless the batter is good. Then for some reason it shrinks to major league standards. This causes the games to last a long time because there is always some rec league rule that you can’t end a game on time.

One time, and this is no joke, we have a Facility Group Angels game last until 10:30 at night. We had 480 walks. Ben tagged somebody out while he was playing third base for the last out of the game and I swear I saw the umpire look at his watch before the call.

The season went on and on and on. And the Facility Group Angels got beat and beat and beat. We won three games that year. My favorite win was when the Angels only got two hits in the game, both by the same kid (who, incidentally, was the smallest boy on the team) and won the game 8-7.

This was also the season my wife broke her elbow at work. I know this doesn’t have too much to do with baseball, but I have to help her with her hair in the morning and if that doesn’t get me into the Husband Hall of Fame, nothing will.