A FLOWER IN THE OUTFIELD

By Steve Wulf

We were yellow. We were sponsored by a garbage company. We were hit by pleurisy, near mutiny, vacations, brain cramps and pretty much every other squad in the league. Yet, when we see major leaguers celebrating in the upcoming postseason, we will remember how we felt back in June.

Let's see, we had Brady Anderson in center, Alex Rodriguez at short, Frank Thomas at first, Mike Piazza behind the plate, Jay Buhner in right, Ken Caminiti at third, Craig Biggio at second, Barry Bonds in left and Roger Clemens on the mound. Despite the presence of such stars, we lost our first six games--not counting a tie called for darkness. Actually, it was in an effort to lighten things up that the coaches decided to give our Little Leaguers the names of big leaguers with the corresponding positions, if not quite the talents.

Several of our players did share a trait with a Hall of Famer who once lived in our neighborhood: Lou Gehrig. It wasn't Larrupin' Lou's power, unfortunately, nor the longevity of the Iron Horse. Rather, it was the sensitivity of the young Gehrig, who would sit on the Yankee bench and cry if he didn't drive in an expected run. We led the league in tears if nothing else.

The first tears belonged to the two coaches, who were dealt the bad hand of yellow-and-white uniforms. The outfits for all the good teams in our league had handsome, powerful colors. No major league team wears yellow. When we took the field we looked like nine dandelions.

We thought we had drafted a pretty good team. But it took us a while to get the talents in synch. Too many vacations, too little practice time, too many boneheaded plays, dropped fly balls and rotten coaching decisions. We improved noticeably toward the end of the season, but still...

One thing was clear from the outset. This was the nicest group of kids either one of us had ever coached. This was also the most spirited group. We rallied from nine runs down against the best team in the league to send the game into extra innings. We ended up losing that game, and some other heartbreakers, but the players never gave up. In one epic struggle late in the season, the umpire had to tell our players, who were at the fence cheering for their mate at bat, to sit down and be quiet.

While the players never gave us an ounce of sass or trouble, the season was not without incident. We had one zealous father who thought we weren't doing right by his son, and indeed we may have given the lad short shrift in response to being pressured. After a game in which I screwed up a substitution, which resulted in this player not getting an at-bat, the father somewhat publicly berated me and my coaching. But he was just a father who cared a lot about his son, and his son was a very sweet kid. Not to mention a pretty good hitter once we started giving him a few more at-bats.

We finished the regular season at 6-12. That meant we were seeded No. 11 in the 16-team, everybody-makes-it playoffs, pairing us off with the No. 6 seed. In the top of the first, we scored three runs with no outs when the son of the zealous dad hit a bases-clearing triple. We never scored another run after that. But lo and behold, our pitchers held the other team in check, thanks to some spectacular plays in the field. With two outs in the sixth, and last, inning, they had runners on first and second, while we had two outs and a 3-1 lead.

At which point, a routine fly ball was hit to our rightfielder, who had pitched two terrific innings earlier in the game. He dropped it. Now the score was 3-2, and there were runners on second and third. When I looked to the rightfielder, I saw him standing there, yellow hat in hand, glove between his legs, bawling.

I called time out and trotted out to the rightfield foul line. I tried as best I could to calm the rightfielder down, telling him that we were still winning, that we wouldn't be winning without him, that we needed him to put his glove back on. I also told him, though I'm not sure he heard me, not to worry about crying because Lou Gehrig cried.

The next batter up hit a long fly to right centerfield. I thought for sure it was going to fall in for the game-winning hit. But wait. Intersecting with the ball was a flash of yellow--our rightfielder. He caught it. He held onto it. In the next moment, he was engulfed in the outfield by his teammates.

As the lowest seed to advance to the next round of the playoffs, we had to play the No. 1 seed. We actually gave them a scare, rallying twice to keep the score close, but alas, our season ended in the second round.

Winning one inconsequential playoff game in one of thousands of Little Leagues can't compare with winning the World Series. Or can it? For Alex, Ari, Billy, Bo, Chaz, Frankie, Jeff, Jon, Joe, Mark, Sam and Zach, it can. One big yellow flower bloomed in the outfield that day. Daisy? Daffodil? It certainly wasn't a dandelion. Let's hope it's a perennial, even if only in their memory.