Prior to this past week, I had never been on the wrong end of a baseball score that looked like it came from a lopsided football game.
At times over the past six days, I’ve felt the pain of those New Orleans Saints fans who years ago would wear paper bags over their heads. I’ve come to understand why people in droves don’t show up at New Jersey Nets games. Or what it must have felt like for fans of Navy football to lose to Notre Dame, badly, year-after-year, for nearly half a century.
The team I helped coach this past week at the Mundial HIT baseball tournament in Nettuno, Italy, featured 10 Hungarian kids ages 13 or 14, the majority of which entered the tournament having been introduced to the sport in April and having played less than five organized games in their lives. Our roster also boasted one Hungarian kid who just turned 16 and was our top player, and two Americans, the 11- and 13-year-old sons of the head coach of the team. Combined, the later three started six of our seven games on the mound and each game at shortstop or catcher. That was our team we entered in a tournament that featured the national U16 teams from Slovakia, France and the Czech Republic, as well as select teams from north, central and south Italy.
Teams entered games knowing they were going to roll over us. Everyone, umpires included, it seemed, cheered when one of our guys got a hit, made a play in the field or we scored a run. We were the Chicago Cubs of the tournament. Everyone knew we weren’t going to win, but seemed to be cheering for us regardless.
Luckily, the American father who coaches the team, Duncan, along with myself and the Hungarian father, Ferenz, who came to translate for us, have a good sense of humor. When results such as 45-0, 39-3 and 29-8 pile up against you, it’s a helpless and frustrating feeling, and you really have no option but to make light of the situation. At one point I turned to Duncan and told him we should have lobbied the tournament directors for an “outfield fly” rule to go along with the traditional infield fly rule, just after the 30th or so routine fly ball hit the ground. I also considered finding the local pet store so we could buy leashes to attach to the player’s belt loop, with base coaches releasing the player when it was time to take off for the next base, and have the ability to reel them back in when they needed to return to the bag.
I’ve never been apart of something like I went through this week, and as guys who have coached with me in the past could probably guess, there were several times that I didn’t take it well (though I only kicked one chair, did not get thrown out of any games, and the only times I used God’s name was when I was praying for a third out to end a 45-minute half-inning).
Luckily, in addition to approaching the games with no expectations and that sense of humor, another American here coaching with another team, Garret, and I were able to sneak up to Rome for an afternoon to break things up a bit, and there’s nothing like checking out the Roman Coliseum and sucking down some European beers to serve as a release from a week of butt-kicking’s.
This week has served as another example of just how far the development of youth baseball in Hungary has to go. However, I keep reminding myself of the lessons I’m learning in having patience. And these are hopefully lessons that will someday benefit me when my son or daughter tracks mud through the new carpet, breaks something in the house, or changes the channel in the middle of the Redskins game.
Speaking of which, less than two weeks until NFL opening day!
Photos from Nettuno
Photos from Rome