- November 18, 2024
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The baseball disappeared from the fingers of Raul Hernandez, engulfed for a moment between a pair of humming white wheels. Then, with the unmistakable sound a pitching machine makes at the point of emission, it shot out on a line toward home plate — 46 feet.
I arrived during batting practice at the Palm Coast Little League All-Stars’ Saturday morning workout. A few pitches later, the batter roped a hard grounder through the hole between second and short. Since eight of the nine kids shagging were clustered in the infield (as, of course is a hallowed little league tradition), no one was in position to field it. Except for me.
With my camera on my shoulder and fedora on my head, I ranged to my right, craned down — and snagged the ball barehanded. The kids’ approving glances as I nonchalantly tossed it in served as confirmation that my web gem did not go unnoticed. I had successfully impressed a bunch of 12-year-olds, which after all, was my objective from the get-go.
Scanning the ballpark at Indian Trails, I drank in a comfortably familiar scene. A doting mom handed off a Gatorade at the dugout door.
“Make sure you drink all of it,” she said.
That kid must have been mortified. On the diamond, it was clear the players’ focus was waning toward the tail end of a long practice. Hernandez, the team’s manager, prescribed a game of “18 outs,” where the goal was to string together six innings worth of situational defense without making an error. It was during this portion of the practice that the little league trope really fell into place.
“Charge it Connor, you’re letting the ball play you!” barked the token back-seat driving (really first-base dugout lounging) dad/coach, of the ilk my own father used to mock hilariously.
“Dad/coach” wasn’t done. Later, one of the boys took a hard turn on a single and forced a throw. Okay, it wasn’t the best base running decision, but Hernandez called him “safe.”
“Luckily,” commented the dad, “If you do that in a game, you’re going to get picked off.”
Unsolicited, I posted up in the third base coach’s box, hoping to give the players a face to pick up when rounding second. We called it the “boink line” in high school ball. It’s an imaginary line about 10 feet before the second-base bag where you swivel your head to the left to pick up the coach, who will either hold you up or send you ahead to third.
I committed two vices. First of all, I’m a horrid third base coach and probably did more harm than good with my windmills and stop signs (Coach Hernandez, feel free to blame any running mistakes in upcoming games on me). Secondly, I tried to learn each player’s name in the span of 15 minutes, a much-maligned proposition. Everyone received unwavering positive encouragement — attached to the wrong name.
As the 11 and 12s start district play this week, they’re in good hands with Hernandez. And they’re a great collection of kids.
After snapping some headshots for the sports front and taking some video, I took one last look around the field. The 200-foot fences loomed more confining than I remember from my all-star days a decade ago. Maybe I’m just bigger.
