Little Dudes, Little League, and a Little Love for Trea Turner
It was hot as hell on a Saturday afternoon. Jack wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and adjusted his batting helmet to sit more securely over his long blonde hair. He was on deck.
Twelve-year-old kids come in a comically wide array of shapes and sizes, and they were all on display that day at the 12u Little League district championship game. Jack watched as his smallest teammate faced off against a pitcher who had the size and strength of a grown man. It seemed almost unfair to let the oversized adolescent in the Royals jersey fire fastball after fastball at the tiny human in the Pirates jersey. But the half-pint was fearless, and worked his way to a full count.
A storybook situation was shaping up. Jack’s Pirates were down 4-2 in the bottom of the game’s sixth and final inning. Two of Jack’s teammates anxiously hopped up and down on the freshly manicured field, one on second base and the other on third. Two very fast kids: a base hit would probably tie the game.
A familiar metallic ping rang out as bat hit ball. Foul. The little guy at bat was still alive.
Countless hours of practice, travel, regular-season ballgames, and postseason tournaments led to this moment for the Pirates. It was hard to believe that it could all end with just one more strike.
The Pirates were an incredible collection of talented young baseball players, and they’d easily beaten everyone else in their way. Here in a distant corner of the state, however, they’d met their match: six-footers in blue were scattered all over the field, gloves in hand, focused intensely on the next pitch. The Royals looked like a baseball team designed in a lab. In contrast, the Pirates had more of a Bad News Bears or Sandlot vibe.
Another ping pierced the air. Foul ball.
The early-summer sun was relentless. Us grown-ups had spent most of the game clustered under what little shade was available at the miniature ballpark, but now we crowded close to the fences to see the action. One deserving group of kids was about to have an incredible moment. We just didn’t know which.
Ping! Yet another foul. Could any of us hit a fastball off the big kid throwing 70 mph from a mound less than 50 feet away? Probably not. The normally talkative coaches were silent, arms crossed, feet scuffing dirt. They knew the game was out of their hands at this point.
On the bench, the remaining anxious Pirates channeled their nervous energy into a chant.
“Battle baby battle, make that baseball rattle…”
Ping! A foul ball crushed down the left field line. If the pitcher was shook, he didn’t show it. Another chant.
“Holy cow, what a foul! Moooooooove it over. Moooooooove it over.”
I suppressed an urge to tell the kids to shut the fuck up. I was stressed. We all were, all of us parents. But for me it was worse. My heart was pumping like I was watching Brett Myers’ walk against CC Sabathia. Because a walk would load the bases… and it wasn’t Shane Victorino on deck. It was Jack. My baby boy.
Ball four. Little man pumped his fist and trotted to first base to load ‘em up. And suddenly, all at once, it was time: Jack walked to the plate. It was all up to him to keep the Pirates alive. A solid hit would tie the game and maybe even win it.
Jack’s team and its supporters cheered wildly, but one lone spectator with questionable tattoos and a Phillies hat pulled low stood silent, his face blank: I was terrified.
I’ve never cared more about an at-bat in my life. I knew I wasn’t watching the World Series. Hell, this championship wouldn’t even get the team into the Little League World Series. (The county assembles all-star teams for those competitions.) But it felt like life-or-death.
To me, it seemed brutally, agonizingly clear: either 1) Jack would get a game-winning hit, ride the resulting euphoria straight into success across all aspects of life, and be the happiest person that ever lived, or 2) Jack would be the final out, never want to play baseball again, and spiral into depression, drugs, and alcohol.
If that sounds insane, you probably don’t have kids. I wanted desperately to help him.
Jack was starting to look grown, but that was still my baby boy out there. I watched him take his first steps. I taught him to throw a ball. We talked baseball history and I helped him grow his love of the game.
I watched Jack run the wrong way in tee-ball. I watched him hit game-winning homers in coach-pitch.
I wiped his tears the first time he struck out… and I taught him not to gloat the first time he struck someone else out. We watched Phillies highlights on YouTube together. We went to spring training in Clearwater. We set up a strike zone in the yard and, for hours and hours, I watched him throw. Jack simply devoured all the baseball I had to offer, with the sweet curiosity and excitement only a child can generate.
He was my little dude. I love my little dude. I had been there with him every step of the way.
But now he was up at the plate. And he was alone.
Think of how badly you’ve wanted a Phillies player to come through with runners in scoring position. Or how much you’ve needed a player to get a hit to complete a ridiculous 12-leg parlay. Then multiply that feeling by a got-damn billion.
That’s where my mind was. I would have literally cut off a finger or toe for this kid to get the winning hit.
Jack settled into his stance, doing everything his coaches ever told him. Perfect form. He bounced his knees a little and looked loose. This was it; this was the moment.
So let’s talk about Trea Turner.
He’s not a kid. He’s a 30-year-old man. But when Phillies fans gave the struggling star a standing ovation, his mother cried. Why? Because that’s still her baby boy. They’re *all* somebody’s baby boy.
The change in perspective for me is wild. As a kid, I would’ve looked up to Trea Turner as a superhero. In my 20s, I probably would have said some tough-guy shit about how he needs to man up. But now? I am a father. And Trea’s my little dude. At Sunday’s game I cheered hard for him alongside everyone else. It was a beautiful moment. (And he’s been playing well since!)
Who knows whether the fans’ gesture had any real, measurable effect on Turner. But in interviews it sure sounded like he was heartened by it. And for a town plagued by tired jabs about throwing snowballs at Santa, the overwhelming support was beautiful.
We did good, Philly.
The first pitch to Jack was inside, but the umpire called it a strike. I wanted to choke the guy or at least curse him out. I bit my tongue.
Jack, however, was unfazed by the missed call. Didn’t complain at all. I’m proud of that, it’s something we’ve had to work on.
Second pitch was way outside. Third pitch was ripped foul. I watched Jack take a deep breath and crack his neck. He looked like a pro, cool and collected. Where tf did my little guy go?
Ball two. Ball three. I’m losing my mind. A hit here would form a core memory: teammates mobbing Jack as the winning run scored. It had to happen. I would will it to happen. I would fucking manifest it. Because, also, the alternative was unthinkable.
I remember squinting at the pitcher, staring at him, watching him take his own deep breaths—and then scanning the crowd for his family. Some other parent out there was going through it watching their son, just like I was. The young pitcher looked tired, but he reached back and found something extra for one last pitch.
Swing and a miss, strike three.
It was over.
The Royals went nuts, screaming and throwing their gloves in the air. Jack stood in place in the batter’s box, watching them celebrate. He gripped his bat tightly with one hand. I couldn’t see his face, but I could picture exactly what it looked like.
The other Pirates slapped him on the back and gave him bro-hugs. I realized that Jack was going to be okay.
He told me so himself once we were alone. In his recently-deepened voice and internet-speak-inspired choice of words, Jack said he “just gotta take that L and work to get better.” I told him that I was impressed, and that I would have been devastated for a long time as a kid, and that if he wanted to talk more about it I’d be there. He informed me that “it’s not that deep,” and that he’s “built different.” I understood these words only because I’ve spent a stupid amount of time on twitter.
The Pirates held their heads high and congratulated the division champs in the handshake line.
I stopped feeling nauseous. I’d wanted that winning moment so bad for my guy. But the way he handled himself was great. And the way the team rallied around him was incredible.
Baseball, man.
Back to Trea. And the rest of the Phillies, for that matter.
I’m not going to tell anyone how to fan. If you think the ovation thing is soft, don’t participate. But I do think we should all remember that these players are human beings. They want to succeed just as much as we want them to succeed. We’re on the same side.
So boo, hiss, do whatever you’d like. But have at least a little respect. And if you happen to be next to a player’s parents in the stands… better watch your ass when you talk about their little dude.
Exclusive new artwork from Dhwani Saraiya.
Trea Turner:
Tweets of the week.
Alec Bohm has been on fire lately hitting second in the lineup:
https://twitter.com/JackFritzWIP/status/1689251743903670272?s=20
How great has Johan Rojas been for the Phils? I can’t stop watching this catch:
https://twitter.com/OscarBudejen/status/1689207556529364992?s=20
Water ice bandit at Citizens Bank Park, the Philly-ness is off the charts:
Matt Strahm has been playing so well that the Phillies had to go get another one:
https://twitter.com/CogginToboggan/status/1686467320414109696?s=20
Lookalike jokes aside, Michael Lorenzen was fantastic in his Phillies debut:
https://twitter.com/JClarkNBCS/status/1687180717837492224?s=20
This week in 2008.
The 2008 Phils were 62-51 at the end of August 6, in first place by 2.5 games.
On July 31, the Phillies wrapped up a sweep of the Nats for their fifth straight win. Kyle Kendrick allowed 2 runs in 6.2 innings, and he was helped out by home runs from Jimmy Rollins (8) and Jayson Werth (15).
The winning streak came to an end the next night in St. Louis, as the Cardinals beat the Phils 6-3. But the Phillies stormed right back to win the series with consecutive one-run wins. Joe Blanton pitched well and Ryan Howard hit his 31st home run of the season in a 2-1 victory on August 2, and Chase Utley (28) and Shane Victorino (10) hit dingers in a 5-4 win on August 3.
The Phillies returned to Citizens Bank Park for a series against the Marlins beginning August 5. The Marlins won the first game 8-2, and it was the first time Jamie Moyer ever took a loss against the Fish. He had been 10-0 with a 3.03 ERA in his 10 previous career starts against them.
But on August 6, the Phillies bounced back again with a 5-0 win. Kendrick, Chad Durbin, and Ryan Madson combined for the shutout, and Howard hit yet another home run.
Phillie you forgot about.
Jeff Grotewold: one season with the Phils (1992), 72 games, 75 plate appearances, .200/.307/.369 (.676 OPS), 3 HR, 5 RBI. The three home runs came in pinch-hit appearances in three consecutive days.
Defensively, Grotewold helped out as a catcher, infielder, and outfielder. After the 1992 season, he didn’t resurface in the majors until 1995 with Kansas City, where he played 15 more MLB games.
This is the section of the newsletter where I make you look at dogs.
I know I’m not the only one who put my dog on one of the cardboard cutouts at the Bank during the pandemic. How many of you did the same?
Thank you for reading and Go Phils!
It may be the White Claws I had at the pool today throwing alley oop passes toward the lap lane with my own son, but I felt this entire post. It's easy to forget that these guys are someone's "little dudes". Great post.