Despite scandal and questionable bullpen management, my beloved Dodgers, at this writing, have a record of 28-13 and have been, almost unquestionably, the best team in Major League Baseball thus far. My second favorite baseball team, the SIlver Lake Yankees, have endured a tougher season.

The attrition began two weeks ago. First, one of our most enthusiastic players broke his elbow coming off a McDonald's playground slide, cutting our team down to 11. Then, the kid with the 6 PM bedtime kind of faded away. After that, another kid quit, though his parents did make him tell the coach in person and did bring Krispy Kreme donuts for the entire team.

That left us with nine, the bare minimum required to field a teeball team. But then Saturday dawned. One of our remaining number appeared totally uninterested in playing, and spent the entire game moping on his bleachers next to his mom. Another was mysteriously absent. We were down to seven. The umpire let us take the field anyway. Coach had to discard his democratic ways and actually put the best players at key positions, lest every opposing hitter knock an inside-the-park home-run.

About 15 minutes into the game, our eighth player appeared. Apparently, he'd gone into the john with some comic books and had taken his own sweet time. I've been there, kid.

At least, I thought, Elijah has never wavered. But his wavering was soon to come.

When I picked him up on Thursday before practice, the boy was in a foul mood.

"I'M HUNGRY!" he exclaimed.

I presented him with a snack assortment, prepared by Regina, that included a tangerine and a rice cake with peanut butter. Not the greatest snack of all time, admittedly, but it was certainly acceptable.

"I'm not practicing unless you give me green beans," he said.

Now, I like the fact that he was demanding vegetables, but I didn't have any, and he had to get to practice. We were already a few minutes late.

"You have to practice," I said.

"WHY?" he said, "IT'S JUST A STUPID PRACTICE!"

"Because practicing is part of baseball."

"But I already know how to play baseball!"

"You need to practice."

"I am not practicing and I am taking off my shoes!"

He took off his shoes. The argument continued all the way to practice. When we got there, he took some swipes at me. I forced him to put on his shoes and socks while he screamed and thrashed.

"I AM NOT GOING TO PRACTICE!" he said.

"Fine," I said. "You don't have to play. But you will sit next to me quietly on the grass for an hour. I'm not going to reward your temper tantrum."

"I'M SOOOOOOOO HUUUUUUUUUNGRRRRRRYYYYYY!"

Then you should have eaten what I gave you, I said.

There was much howling and screaming and drama, but eventually, the boy did come to practice and did sit quietly next to me on the grass. I wasn't going to get him onto the field, but I sure as hell was going to make him fulfill his commitments. Life is full of crap you don't want to do, kid. And if not wanting to practice baseball is your biggest concern, well, then, you're shitting in clover. God, I sound like such a dad.

He went to his 11 AM game on Saturday, played second base without complaint, and somehow managed to turn a bunt into a triple. We got nine players on the field, and didn't throw every fielded ball into the first-base dugout. Some would call that progress.

Posted by at 11:49 AM | Permalink