Seven Year Olds and Cups

Coaching a boys little league baseball team is an adventure and not for the weak at heart. They are obnoxious at seven, in preparation for their lives as men I imagine. But, having sons, we get roped into doing things we wouldn't normally do, even under the threat of death. So I began my first season as a baseball coach. Not the team mom or the assistant coach, I jumped right in with both feet!

I was in charge of fifteen young, wide-eyed, boys of summer. I had been playing baseball with my own son since before he could walk, which I realize isn't really fair since he couldn't run the bases, but I did it anyway. I felt confident that I could whip these young men into shape and have fun while we were at it.

Now I had been holding practice twice a week for two hours each night and I thought we looked pretty good. We covered the proper way to catch and throw. I worked on their stances during batting practice. We ran bases and worked on our fielding. I covered the rules and regulations with them, the most important being of course that the only time it's okay to spit and "scratch" in public is on the baseball field. This rule was greeted with laughter and "right on's" by my young team and horror by their mothers. And yes, we had the talk about wearing protective gear.

I started out talking about the type of cleats that were required. Then went into the optional batting gloves and required batting helmets. I told them about the catcher's gear and showed it to them.

Then I said the "C" word.

It was mandatory in this league for the boys to wear a protective cup, so I did my best to explain this to my young, snickering, blushing, wide-eyed boys of summer. I think they would have preferred more fielding time or another round of batting practice, but I had to do what I had to do.

On the way home from practice that night, my son and I stopped by the sporting goods store to get his batting glove and his cup. We made it in and out of the store in record time and were in the car and gone. We had no conversation and made no eye contact on the drive home. It was like we had been on a top-secret mission that neither of us were at liberty to discuss.

Finally came our first game! My son was in the bathroom getting ready and I stood outside the door coaching him through the proper placement of the cup. I'm still not sure what made me think I knew anything at all about what I was telling him. Whether I did or didn't, the child got dressed in all his gear and came out of the bathroom, where he was immediately greeted by his mother's questions.

"How does the cup feel?" "Do you have enough room?" "Is anything being pinched?" "You think you can get used to the cup?" "Is the cup bothering you?"

When all of the sudden, my seven year old boy looked up at me and said, "mom, could you just not say the word cup anymore, please?"

Well, here I was trying to be cool about this "guy stuff" and I got shot down.

On the way to the game I realized he was just embarrassed to be speaking of such things with his mom. I decided I wouldn't ask him anything else about his cup, if he had any serious problems with it, I felt sure he would come to me about it.

So, we arrived at the field and got the gear unloaded. Michael took off to get his warm up time in and I was left in the dugout firming up my lineup choices and repeatedly reminding myself of the newly forbidden topic of discussion.

The umpire called the two teams onto the field a bit later. My team was to line up on the third base line and the other team on the first base line. This would be our equipment check. The ump checked the cleats and made sure no one had on any watches or other jewelry and his part of the inspection was over.

"Coach, you need to make sure all your boys have on protective gear." He informed me, much to the dismay of my young team and no one more than my young son.

My mind was racing! How did I check for something like that? It was obvious of course in some of the boys, as they appeared to be walking not without some level of difficulty or at least discomfort.

Just when I thought all hope was lost an idea took root. I remembered having told them about spitting and "scratching" at one of our practices. What I was considering wasn't all that different than "scratching" or "adjusting", so I turned to my team and gave the order to knock.

"Okay guys, ump needs to make sure you're all suited up properly, so I need you to knock on your cups."

This is like giving permission to pass gas at the dinner table or burp really loud in public. It insights immediate and uncontrollable laughter in seven year old boys. Through the giggling and knocking, the order was given.

"Play ball!"