When Little League Parents Go Wild

How My Father Ruined Organized Sports For Me

It’s almost spring, which means the return of perennial events…. flowers bloom, lovers swoon, birds return…. and Little League baseball brings out the worst in far too many parents.

I’m one of those people who doesn’t even blink when I see the latest story about a Little League parent gone wild. Frankly, ESPN could run a weekly segment on the “Monster Little League Parent of the Week” and the ratings would go through the roof.

People think it’s funny to watch a YouTube video of some jackass father getting pissed off because the eighteen-year-old umpire blew a call from ninety feet away while looking at the cute girl from English class in the stands.

People find it hysterical watching a mom screaming until her forehead vein turns a deep purple while berating the coach who replaced her kid in the 5th innning of a 20-2 game so that another parents child can get an at-bat.

Sadly, plenty of women have taken on the worst characteristics of men when it comes to their childrens organized sports.

I’m here to tell you it’s not so funny when you’re on the field experiencing it first hand. It’s not funny when it’s your parent behaving that way.

I know all too well the shame when a little league parent goes wild.

I’m grateful there were no iPhones or YouTube in 1974 because without a doubt the incident with my dad would have gone viral.

My father was a middle-management suit and tie man of the 1960s and 70’s. Not Don Draper, but he worked hard. Doing things by the book mattered to him. My father had a glaring blind spot when it came to losing his temper… my little league games. There were times he could behave and then there were other times that he couldn’t…. like the 1974 incident that forty years later is as fresh as the grass I wanted to crawl into that night.

I was twelve and just happy playing little league with my friends. That season, I had graduated from right field to left field and moved from the bottom of the batting order to the three spot.

Paying attention to bad calls by a incompetent umpire wasn’t my priority. But that evening it would be for my father.

The game was a debacle from the beginning as the umpire blew call after call. As the innings played out, my father increasingly yelled a “c’mon ump” or “how could you miss that call?” These calls didn’t involve me, by the way.

Dad was getting very agitated. Not always good to be around him at that point. I could hear my mom from across the field asking my father to settle down.

Several times my coach discretely asked my father to calm down too. I could see mom and my coach didn’t want to embarrass me anymore than I was already. My teammates tried desperately to ignore what was happening and several friends on the other team glanced at me occasionally, their obvious discomfort making me more edgy as the innings passed.

My father got louder and louder with his berating of the umpire. Now all I wanted was for the game to end. Each time I ran into the dugout after an inning I was filled with increasing anger. My mom continued to plead with my father to stop haranguing the umpire. But each call made him continue his rant.

Then the final melt down while I paced in left field.

My father out of control, stepped around the fencing and strode onto the field screaming at the umpire. My mom was now crying, begging, pleading with my father to stop.

The umpire warned my father that if he didn’t leave the little league complex the game would be forfeited. Several times I meekly croaked towards the adults for my father to leave.

But what was I really going to do….. charge home plate and confront my father?

I didn’t have the physical strength to take on my father. I was little for my age. And I certainly didn’t have the mental strength to take on my father as he lost all control.

I watched the literal tug of war play out as other parents finally stepped in and spoke up. In 1974 things weren’t handled like they are now. There were no calls to the police.

Finally, after several minutes of my mother calming dad down, my parents got into the car and drove up the street so the game could be finished.

A part of my childhood was finished in that moment.

For years our backyard had been my father tossing me baseballs skyward and throwing hard ground balls in different directions in order to teach me how to catch and field.

Going to minor league games in Syracuse was a big event, later upgraded to watching the New York Yankees in the original Yankee Stadium shortly after Mickey Mantle retired.

Baseball was a bonding experience for my father and I.

All of that evaporated watching my parents drive off. My final baseball memory with my dad would be the shame I felt watching them drive away.

I don’t recall dad apologizing to me after the game. In my daze, I suppose it could have happened, but I highly doubt it. One thing that is still very clear was the next day at school. We didn’t need the internet to pass juicy gossip around quickly and this was extra juicy. The moment I entered homeroom there were whispers, snickers, laughter, and some comments thrown my way.

I wanted to be any place but school.

But there were friends also, both those at the game and those who heard about what happened, who offered unconditional support. An arm draped around my shoulder, a hair rub…… and more than one comment that their dad was an asshole too.

The Little League season was winding down at that point. I knew already that I was done after this year. I didn’t want a replay of that game to occur ever again. I don’t recall my father coming to another game the rest of the season.

I never played organized sports again as a kid.

When the Bad News Bears came out a few years later, watching Vic Morrow in one scene where he went off the rails and slapped his son on the field was like reliving my night again.

I tell this incident as a plea to all the Little League parents out there. Don’t let your child’s memory forty years from now be that of you out of control at one of their games, because in the end, that’s all it is…. a game.

Follow me at @barraford or follow all my stories at Beach Sand Kicker.

I welcome any thoughts or comments at jamesbarraford@gmail.com