“Okay, girls!” I yell, followed by a shrill whistle through my fingers. “Let’s gather on the bleachers.”
The girls fill three rows, shuffling around to sit next to their preferred friend. My eyes snag on the new girl, Mia. She’s on the end of the first row, sitting still, back straight, eyes on me. The parents who stayed for practice mingle quietly near the dugout or at the top of the bleachers.
“Everyone give Coach Will your attention while he goes over the rules and tells us what we’re doing today.”
I step back and Will takes my place, running through the same list of expectations we review every season. Some of these girls were on our team last year. Many are moving up from T-ball to coach pitch for the first time.
Will wraps up his speech.
I ask, “Did everyone understand what Coach Will told you?”
Heads bob. Some of the girls practically bounce in place with energy. Our more reserved team members sit quietly, waiting to get on the field. A girl in the back row is bent over with her head between her legs, picking something off the underside of the bleachers.
Even though I know I’m opening a can of worms, I say, “It’s come to my attention that some of you would like a new team name.”
Cheers erupt. Chaos ensues as girls shout out names in an overlapping chorus. They’ve obviously been waiting for this opportunity.
“Okay. Okay. Eyes on me, girls.”
Most of them look at me, and everyone from last year puts their finger to their lips. It’s the way I call them to order.
“Look around you,” I say.
They all glance around. “When I say ‘Eyes on me,’ you look at me, and bring your pointer to your lips like this.” I demonstrate, making eye contact with each of them and keeping my lips thin and my face neutral.
One girl in the back row raises her hand.
“Yes, Tabitha?”
“What if we’re wearing our ball glove when you say it?”
“I never say, ‘Eyes on me,’ when you’re on the field.”
“Oh. Okay,” Tabitha says, lowering her hand.
Will chuckles and mutters, “There’s one in every group.”
“One?” I ask in an almost whisper.
We’re talking about seven- and eight-year-olds. And we get them at the end of a long school day. They’re tired and squirrely, and they lack self-control as a rule of thumb. Half of them don’t care about baseball at all. But I still pour myself into every minute of being their coach. They may not know it now, but we’re making core memories on this field—maybe even friendships that will last a lifetime, even if that lifetime is cut short.
I clear my throat and tell the girls, “I’ll send a text to your parents. Once all the suggestions for a team name are in, we’ll have a vote. The new name will be announced at next week’s first practice.”
I glance at Will. He nods. It was his idea to give the girls a chance to rename the Possums since so many of them have asked for a change. But we need to move quickly so we can get the new name stitched on the uniforms.
“Everyone ready to practice?” I ask.
The girls all shout “Yeah!”
“Let’s start with our warm-ups.”
Will takes over. The girls pour off the bleachers onto the field. Will has them spread out, jogging in place with high knees. Then we all run one lap around the field. We follow that with a few stretches and some arm circles. Most of this routine simply serves to burn off the excited first-practice energy. But it’s also a good way to get them used to following directions.
We group the girls in pairs and a few clusters of three to have them practice throwing.
I walk around saying things like, “Step toward the target,” “Eyes on the ball,” and “Nice and easy.”
Balls roll everywhere. Girls chase them down.
