Choking Up: How To Hit A Softball And Steal A Dad's Heart

by Kenneth J. Weiss
May 16, 2005

Last summer my eight-year-old daughter Allie decided she wanted to play organized softball with the other girls in the neighborhood. You should know a few things about Allie. Her sports career is a little short on momentous achievements. Actually, any. She went out for volleyball and never got a serve over the net. She signed up for basketball and never got a bucket. She played each with luminous joy, but... she's not the most athletic kid in the world. Singer, actress, TV personality - she could be those, but athlete, sadly, no.

So when softball came along, I reluctantly said, "Yes" and immediately began looking for an edge. I won't deny that I bought her a training gadget or two, but the idea that most captivated me was to teach her signs. Yep, signs, those strange and wonderful gyrations the third base coach does whenever a batter steps to the plate; and since I volunteered to coach third base, it would be perfect.

We began by watching baseball games on TV - purists cover your ears - I told her not to watch how the batter stood or how they held their hands, but how they stepped out of the batter's box and peered at the third base coach. A really good game showed the third base coach a lot. Poke-poke-tug - pull - touch the hat - rub the stomach - clap-clap-clap.

My pride erupted when she realized that a nod of the head or a quick touch of the batting helmet meant the batter understood the signs. She got the biggest kick when the batter was confused and waggled his finger in a circular motion to make the coach repeat the signs.

She was ready.

We started simple, I taught her about the indicator. The indicator is the signal that means the next signal is THE one. Nothing else matters. No order matters. Nothing means anything unless it follows the indicator. We agreed a tap of the head meant, "don't swing." Hands on the hips, "swing if it's close." Our indicator, the ultimate signal of trust, togetherness and sharing, will remain a secret.

We would practice in the family room, her at the fireplace with an imaginary bat, me on the couch. She was good. She would beg me to forget the indicator so she could circle her finger and make me repeat the signs. When my father came for a visit I said, "you've got to see this." I think he had a tear in his eye.

This first game came and she carefully strode to the plate. She put her back foot hesitantly in the batter's box, and placed her front foot just outside. She glanced at the pitcher, and then at me. At that moment, the little girl who I love so much, the little girl who s not so little anymore, wanted direction from me. Just me. Only me.

How long would I have this privilege? Not just in softball, but in life. How long before adolescence intruded and filled her with different ideas and thoughts?

There's no spectacular ending to this story. No scorching line drive. No ground ball with eyes. No fans craning their necks to follow a monumental home run. Just a walk. Just a clangy toss of the bat, a trot to first base and a smile. That wonderful smile.

We've had many at bats since then. A few more walks. A few strikeouts. No hits yet. But every time she steps in, she looks at me and I give her the signs, and I consider that a great moment in sports.