Little League, Big Therapy

Ah, the Little League World Series. Where else can you see such horrible parenting in action? I laugh as I watch the fathers screaming at their children for every little thing, because I know that at some point later on in life, those kids will grow tired of it, look their dad in the eye and say, "F*ck you. You're a prick."

Poetic justice is fun. And no, I'm not talking about the Janet Jackson film.

I played little league baseball, and while my parents were always at the games, they were smart enough to realize what so many other parents don't: that their children suck at sports, and it doesn't matter at all.

My dad was quite the ballplayer back in his day. He even tried out for a Cincinatti Reds minor league club at one point. He didn't make it, but it's still an impressive feat. The good thing is, even with his success in the game, he was still smart enough to realize that it wasn't a big deal if I didn't inherit his skills.

Of course, it probably helped that I was a terrible player from the start. I couldn't have gotten a base hit if you set the ball on a tee and chloroformed the entire infield. But that's still beside the point. No matter how good a kid is, unless he's playing varsity during junior high, he probably doesn't have much of a chance of becoming a major leaguer.

I made sure not to get my parents' hopes up. I was so bad that even one of the other kids' parents starting heckling me during a game. I won't say the first name of the son or the father, but it was the "Elsen" family. Anyone from my high school will remember them. Let's just say that the son was a complete jackass, and you could tell who taught him the ropes.

It began like this: a small miracle had occurred during this particular game, meaning that I had gotten a hit and was actually on base. Seeing how my batting average was somewhere around .073, I think most would agree that I certainly didn't deserve to be heckled during this particular game.

I was standing on second, when the batter got a hit. As I neared third, the third base coach waved me home, completely ignoring the fact that I ran about as fast as a herd of cattle infected with mono. And suffering from severe cases of asthma. But he waived me home anyway, and the throw got to the plate way before I did. But instead of running back to third, I panicked and kept running home. I couldn't figure out whether to slide or ram the catcher, so I panicked and ended up doing a little bit of both. Note to aspiring major leaguers: when you do this, you look like a gigantic sissy who couldn't run over his own grandmother at the plate.

The umpire threw me out of the game for ramming the catcher, which is illegal in little league. After the game, the Elsen dad pointed at me and mockingly said, "Nice slide Paul! Ha ha haaaaaaaaa!"

As he was walked away, he laughed while muttering, "God, how pathetic." I believe I was 17 at the time. 20 years from now, when all my life's pent-up bitterness and anger finally releases in a violent rampage, I'll break a chair over his head and use chains to drag him from my car as I drive around Richfield, honking my horn and screaming, "THE DARK HOUR HAS BEGUN! THE SEASON OF LOCUSTS IS FORTHCOMING!"

I'm sure it'll end up being a fun day.

Either way, it's amazing how a trait like "being good at baseball" won't transfer from my dad down to me, while a trait like "being a complete asshole" transfers flawlessly in the Elsen family. I guess I can't really complain, though. At least the "angry, bitter and disillusioned" trait passed on in my family without any trouble. Hooray! Let's go celebrate with an overdose of Prozac and the random beating of a McDonald's birthday party mascot! Take that, Grimace! Bleed purple, you fat, ever-smiling confidant in the axis of evil!