Being on a travel baseball team with all your friends from school and your dad as a coach is what every 8 year old dreamed of. If your dad was a coach you could have a better chance to get playing time, but only when you are 8 or 9 years old that would work. 

When I was 8 and 9 the parents of the kids who didn’t play would always complain after the game and say some things that I kind of found rude.

“This is unfair how much the Coaches kids play, when we are paying the same amount of money for them to play.”

As I would walk by the parents who would always say those rude things they also gave my mom, dad, and I dirty looks.

Now I am playing on 17/18u team, and the only way I will play is if I earn my playing time. I don’t get any complaints from parents of why I am playing more than their kids anymore. Which to me is a positive thing and now it is at the point where all the Coaches can do is coach the players of the team, just coach. No special treatments. No special anything. 

Back when I was younger, if your dad was a coach he could talk to the other Coaches about having their son play over the other kids on the team.

Besides my dad being my Coach for 8 years on the field, he would help me at home when we didn’t have practice or games, and he took it serious. We used to go in our backyard at our old house on Foster Road to practice 2-3 times a week to practice hitting old, ripped baseballs off the old, black, “dollar-store” tee that was bent at the base. My Dad referred to it as the, “dollar-store” tee because it was old as dirt.

Once we finally got started with our practice, my Dad used to make me hit 15 balls to left field into our grumpy neighbors yard, 20 more balls up the middle towards the apple trees that seemed as if the apples would just jump of the branches because of how many apples laid underneath it. Finally finish off with another 15 into right field. All to teach me how to do one thing.

“Pull your hands quick through the zone and react to the pitch to use the whole field.”

Once we finished that the would pitch to me and that was my favorite. I loved actually seeing how the spin of the ball would come out of the pitcher's hand and react to the pitcher's release point of the ball.

My Dad would make me repeat that same thing, 15 to left, 20 to center, and another 15 to right. Finally when we finished my batting practice my Dad would mumble under his stomach-turning breath.
“Great round bud, way to use the whole field. Now go pick ‘em up.”

Finishing with clapping his hands in joy.

Now came the worst part of batting practice. Every ball you hit, you had to go and pick up. Every. Single. One. It didn’t help that the two buckets my Dad had were the size of a mini-zoo, and I would have to haul the two bucket’s around the whole backyard picking up all the crappy baseballs. 

Once I made my way around the backyard then I picked up the 2 full bucket of balls, dragging them back to my dad I was thinking to myself, “maybe if my arms fall off my dad will let me stop practice early.” Having a 9 year old imagination was something I wish I still had today. My dad would then ask me how my arm was feeling and if I wanted to take fly balls because he wanted me to be an outfielder just like him. Of course I said, “Yes I do, my arm is fine.” But what I was really wanting to say was, “My arm is killing me from lugging those bucket’s around and I am so tired.” But I knew if I were to say that he would be disappointed in me.

Then he would stumble into our old, dirty, messy, shed that had animals living beneath it. He somehow retrieved this piece of crap, yellow Wilson tennis racket, that had broken wires and a bent frame. I’m sure there was spiders crawling all over it, but he didn’t care. He just wanted me to get better, and after all of that I did.

He coached me until I was about 14 or 15. That was until he decided to move to another state across the country, and soon after he was divorced to my Mom.

In the 8 years of having the same Coach there was a lot of yelling, which to led to arguments, to tears, to more yelling and more tears, and the more and more it happened I began to notice how wrong it was. My Dad taught me good technique, but not a good process of teaching me, I was too young and he was too drunk to know that. I guess what I am trying to say is, 8 years of the same agenda was too much for me.

When I started doing things on my own for the first time, like going up to the High School to practice by myself to work on drills my prior Coaches told me about. For example, hitting off the tee with outside, middle, and inside pitches, also working on my arm strength like playing “long-toss” with a partner. I noticed something new about myself for the first time.

Once my Dad moved out I had no one to really help me with baseball, that is when I realized I am more of a self-taught person and can get things done more efficiently by myself, rather than someone always helping me. Maybe it was as simple as going up to the High School and practicing on my own, but it helped me today with the playing time I get on my new team, and even with the way I go about life everyday. No more sitting around for instructions. No more of people bossing me around. No more of my Dad. Just me.