Game's over, but not memories

I think my favorite story as a Little League manager invol-ved the shortest hit I'd ever seen.
One of my players made a mighty swing, and when the dust had cleared, the ball was 2 inches in front of home plate. The memorable part was this: It turned into a home run.
You get a lot of overthrows in Little League.
That same year I had a player whose longest hit soared over the third baseman and fell into short left. There was an irony on that one, too: It was intended to be a bunt.
I bring this up because after 10 years as a Little League coach, with my youngest now too old to play, I'm at last moving on to focus on other areas of life such as, oh, I don't know, my job.
Just like real major-league managers, I worked my way up.
I first coached T-ball. This level involves kids around 5 years old who, when playing outfield, are experts at studying cloud formations.
Once, I saw a T-ball runner on first freeze up after the batter hit a grounder. A half-dozen parents began shouting, "Run to second, run to second." At which point the little girl playing first base ran to second.
I give Little League parents enormous credit. Youth baseball is the only team sport that is not on the clock, and games routinely go many hours. Over the years, the loudest parental applause I've gotten was upon announcing that, because of darkness or weather, we would be calling the game early. But the parents were always back the next game.
I coached the majors for six years, where kids range up to age 12. It's an amusing group. Their hearts can be shattered if they lose a close one; I've seen kids cry as they go through the handshake ritual. But they get over it instantly if the night's snack mom brings decent chips and drinks. If only adults had that resilience.
The Little Leaguers taught me some other things.
Self-involved pitcher
I had what I thought was a rather self-involved pitcher. But then, without prompting, after he hit a batter with a fastball, he trotted to first base and shook the kid's hand in a peace offering. In a world where adults often refuse to own up, that was a classy lesson.
Decency, though, can go too far. I had a Japanese player who was new to America. One evening, I had him pitch. He struck out the very first batter. Then, standing there on the mound, he apologized to the kid.
After the side was retired, his teammates informed him there are no "I'm sorrys" in baseball -- at least not for getting a guy out. I think the way they put it was, "Don't be such an idiot."
I'm not sure any group is as skilled at begging as Little League kids. Before taking the field each inning, they would surround me like a swarm, lobbying for various positions. For the team's sake, I had to choose carefully, but I also wanted to give kids a chance.
I caved one night and let my worst player pitch. He had never done it before. Amazingly, his very first toss was hit into a double play, retiring the side. At that point, I think he had the best pitching record on the planet -- a lifetime average of two outs per pitch.
Early on, I wished the kids would see their limitations and quit asking for positions that were above them. But in the end, it impressed me. Would it be so bad if more adults believed enough in themselves to want desperately to try the harder jobs?
Here's what impressed me the most. They say Little League is losing kids to games like lacrosse because, in a frantic age of texting, videogames and instant messages, baseball's pace is too slow.
If so, it was an honor to spend a few years with kids still able to embrace a sport involving patience -- and poetry. There's still hope.
Downsides?
I would joke that managers need not just assistants, but a team psychiatrist.
We coaches are always the final cleanup crew. The equipment bags can be cumbersome, the games too long, the skills erratic, the schedule disruptive and the losses lopsided.
And I'm going to miss every last minute of it.
Patinkin is a columnist for the Providence Journal. Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service.