Do Orioles Pray?
Baseball tests your faith, especially Red Sox fans. It took 86 years between World Series championships.
Praying still helps. Makes you feel better.
Little League baseball tested me as a coach and as a person. I’ve coached baseball for many years. There was one season that almost lead my assistant Dave and me to forget baseball and take up a passive recreation like watching the grass grow.
This particular year we entered the majors, the top tier of youth baseball. For the kids they looked forward to this as well. They got to play the best baseball at the best baseball diamond.
Our league muckymucks decided to expand the majors by one team, making it an expansion team. Usually, every year teams start with a cadre of veterans, maybe four to five kids who played the previous season with that team as 11-year-olds. Dave and I were excited to get a team with vets and kids like our sons who came up from the minors.
This vision was disturbed when we pulled the short straw and won the expansion team. At first, we were’t bothered by this. With a new team we planned to create the kind of team we wanted, but we got no veteran players only our sons as our base roster of two players. No special compensation was made for us in upcoming draft. We did’t even get to pick first.
After learning the draft sequence, I knew we would be disadvantaged. None of the other managers gave a crap for our lot. “Stop your whining” came the response from our rivals.
On a long Friday night I watched all the candidates try out at the local high school gym. When I came home that night, I realized what a tough year it would be. I told my wife that we would serve as sacrificial lambs for the league.
The draft the next morning was what I expected. I felt as if I ran the gantlet and was whipped.
That weekend I made my round of phone calls to the players. “Hi, this is Mr. Ryan. You’re on the Orioles.”
The player told his mother, “Mom, I’am on the Oreos.”
Our team was named after the black and orange bird, not the Nabisco cookie.
Another player thought we were the Cardinals and bought bright red spikes to complement his black and orange uniform.
We proceeded to be pounded by our foes throughout most of the season. The league had a slaughter rule if a team lead by 12 runs after four innings the game was over. Forget about winning, our goal was to finish a regulation six-inning game. Several games we rushed to early leads only to lose them from a deluge of errors, poor pitching, bad base running, and the lack of timely hitting.
We practiced and we practiced. I tried everything. Every decision I made--stealing, taking an extra base, making batting and defensive lineups, failed. I could’t believe it. I started to doubt myself.
Of course, we had some characters on the team.
One guy wore work boots to practice. I asked where were his spikes. “These are my favorite shoes,” he replied. I told him he came ready to farm rather than to play ball. He became known as “Farmer.”
Catching a fly ball proved an adventure all season. Maybe one ball was caught by an outfielder all season. That’s no exaggeration.
If anyone made an outfield putout, I promised to give them a pack of baseball cards. My money was safe.
One game Farmer stood in right field when a line drive screamed toward him. Disregarding the first rule of outfield play, which is your first step is to back away from the ball, Farmer charged toward the infield. By the time he redirected his body, the ball buzzed by him to the fence for a triple.
When we came up to bat, Farmer whispered, “Mr. Ryan, do I get a pack of cards?”
“Farmer, remember you have to catch the ball,” I said.
“Oh,” he said with a nod. He must have thought I said if a ball came near you that you receive baseball cards.
One player missed a game. I called him to find out why he never showed or called me.
He said, “Coach, I spilled hot meat sauce on my pants and I could’t come.”
Now this lad’s family lived in a comfortable part of town, and I was amazed the poor fellow owned only one pair of long pants. We should have taken up a collection.
One of our best hitters was Larry. He could hit, he just couldn't move.
He liked to eat. Several games he would be eating hot dogs and burritos in the dugout. He had a tough time moving as it was.
One game he played second base. For some unknown reason Larry stood waiting for the next batter with his glove in his left hand and his hat in his right. All of a sudden a ground ball found its way into his glove, but his cap was in his throwing hand.
“Throw down the hat!” we yelled from the bench.
Unsure of his next move, he looked at each hand. The batter made it to first with time to order pizza. It reminded me of the short story of “The Lady or the Tiger.” He was confused about what to do with the ball and his hat.
That season kept trying our patience. In a memorable 30-5 loss on a hot day, the umpire swore at our players and threw his mask back at the screen.
I called our league commissioner after the game pissed about this ump complaining about our players. I never saw him until later during a summer league game.
“You’re the guy who complained about me,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I replied. “You swore at my kids. They did’t deserve that.”
I thought of a newspaper headline: SUBURBAN DAD KILLED BY MAD UMPIRE.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m feeling better.”
I didn’t bother to ask what ailed him.
One night the team turned to a difficult tactic to change our luck. While we trailed 11-0 late in the game, a certain young man who lives with me, said to his teammates, “Let’s pray.”
I stood nearby in the third base coach’s box when I heard the sound of a “Hail Mary” and a “Our Father.” Things were so desperate the team sounded like it was praying the rosary. Not everyone on the team was Catholic.
So in the last inning we rallied and lost only 11-1.
There was talk of our pastor coming to the game and someone bringing the Bible to the next game.
Finally, on a glorious Friday night our prayers were answered and we accomplished what seemed impossible. Victory.
The Orioles became a team possessed with good pitching, airtight defense, and clutch hitting. When the last out was recorded, we won 11-7. Joy filled us all.
For one night we were in baseball heaven.