Park Slope Reader

Sports

The Big Picture

By Filed Under: Park Slope Life, Sports

The nice view of the Umpire.

In the past few months, I’ve had some pretty significant realizations about perspective. I don’t often consider subjective interpretations of observable phenomena. However, I’ve come to accept that your physical and emotional perspective can significantly impact WHAT you literally see. Your perspective doesn’t impact what is actually there, or what objectively happens. But, your perspective can influence what you’re looking for, and ultimately can make you sure that you saw something that didn’t even happen.

I, honestly, didn’t realize just how much what I saw could differ so drastically from what others saw, when looking at the same thing. If someone saw something differently from what I saw, I figured they were either wrong, or at least physically seeing things differently. However, my experiences as a new baseball/softball umpire this past spring highlighted how what one sees is influenced by both what they think they’re supposed to see, and also what they want to see. I’ve played and coached these sports for decades, and I’ve witnessed and been a part of my fair share of plays. I assumed that my experienced perspective would help me be a better sports official. I’ve since realized that my coaching and player experience is very different from my perspective as an official, literally and figuratively.

When you’re coaching baseball, softball, or any other sport for that matter, you’re watching the game from one particular perspective, that of a coach. As a baseball or softball coach, in particular, you want to see something specific, especially with a pitch. As a coach, you want to see that pitch within the strike zone without a swing when that pitcher on the mound is your own player. But when the pitcher is not your own player and it’s YOUR batter up at plate, you want to see that pitch out of the strike zone. So, as a coach, you moan or groan at calls you disagree with only when they don’t favor the outcome you seek, and not whether they’re the right or wrong call. Let’s be serious: coaches don’t have any view on a pitched ball to see if it’s actually in the strike zone. Coaches in the dugout or coaching base runners at 1st or 3rd base have absolutely NO perspective to allow for a determination as to whether a pitch has fallen within the approximately 1.4- 2 square foot zone that extends from the batter’s knee caps to their armpits, depending on the rules any particular league is following. When a coach moans and groans about a called pitch, it’s because they didn’t get the outcome they wanted: a called strike if the pitcher is their player, or a called ball if the batter is their player. The coach’s reaction to an umpire’s call is not necessarily related to the reality of where that ball traveled through the air as it reached home plate. 

The person with the best perspective on the location of that pitch is the plate umpire, the official behind home plate. The plate umpire is right there. They’ve set themselves up in exactly the right position so that they can see if that pitch crosses the plate or not, and whether the height of the pitch is appropriate to the height and stance of the batter. 

You might argue that the batter has a valuable perspective to make a determination about balls and strikes, but they don’t. The batter can’t accurately see if that pitch is a strike or not because the batter’s looking at the ball; they’re not looking at the plate.They actually don’t even see the plate if they’re doing what they’re supposed to do, which is “keeping their eye on the ball”. The batter makes educated guesses about when they should swing and where they should swing based on what they see about the pitcher’s motion and the trajectory of the ball as it comes at them. The batter’s not even really sure of where that ball is in space, unless and until they hit it.

You could argue the pitcher can make a pretty good call on their own pitch. They’ve got an unobstructed view of the plate, after all. But, the pitcher’s perspective has two problems: they’re up to 60.5 feet away from where the ball ultimately ends, and… they have “skin in the game”. That connection to the outcome of the call skews your perspective more than most people will admit. 

You might think that the catcher would be the person in the best position to see the pitch and whether it’s a strike or not. They’ve got an unobstructed view of the pitch coming towards them, and are far enough away to see all the contours of home plate. Their head is generally at the level of the strike zone, too. But there are some major concerns circling the mind of the catcher that make them less likely than the umpire to make the right call. The catcher isn’t just observing the pitch, they are working the pitch. The catcher is making rapid decisions on their own effort as the ball is coming at them. They are not just thinking “where is the ball? Did it come in over the plate? To the right or the left? High or low?” The catcher is thinking: “Am I gonna catch this? Am I gonna stop this ball? Am I gonna get hit in the head by a desperate batter swinging their bat with no limited awareness of where the ball is? Am I gonna allow that runner from 3rd base to score if the wildly pitched ball gets past me? And you. Runner on first base. I see you taking a big lead. Take an extra step and I’ll get you out before you can dive back to first.” So, although the catcher is in a great physical location to consider whether or not that pitch is a strike, the catcher is not mentally prepared to make a decision about whether or not that pitch was in the zone. They are pre-occupied by their actual role in the ball game, and their perspective is not objective.

The plate umpire is in the best position, physically and mentally, to make the determination on that pitch, regardless of what the parents in left field foul territory are screaming, or even the parents behind the backstop. Those backstop parents can be the worst. They think because they’re behind the umpire they have the same view. But they don’t. They can’t even see the entire plate from that angle. The umpire, catcher AND batter are all obscuring their view. But, that doesn’t stop them from opening up their mouths and loudly complaining. 

When anyone moans or groans about an umpire’s call, it’s usually not because they didn’t didn’t get the call that should have been made based on what they saw; it’s because they didn’t get the call they wanted. And what they think they saw is related to what they wanted, even if it wasn’t actually what happened.

The umpire is in the best position to objectively see that pitch. If the teams have played their cards right the umpire really doesn’t care if the pitch is a strike or a ball because the umpire shouldn’t care who wins or loses. However, when coaches, players and spectators loudly question the umpire’s ability, or visual acumen, the umpire might not feel particularly objective. Umpires are human, and what we see can also be skewed by what we hope to see. So, when people moan and groan at umpires, they’re actually making it less likely that an umpire will be objective on a future call. How’s that for a great reason to shut the heck up?

Umpires don’t just make calls on pitches. They also make calls on plays in the field. Did the ball get caught by a fielder making contact with the base before the runner came in contact with that base? Did the baserunner get tagged? These are usually simple calls, but sometimes they are more difficult than observers would think. Oftentimes, other parties to a play, including baserunners, fielders and even some coaches (but rarely spectators), are in a better position than a plate or field umpire to view the important components of a play. But, just because these players and coaches might have a better literal perspective on the play, they might not actually have the objectivity to see the play clearly.

Fielders, runners and base coaches sometimes might be in a better position than the umpire making the call, because umpires have physical and space limitations. In major league baseball games there are FOUR umpires on the field at any given time, each with a specific role. The umpires work together as a team, but their individual roles are distinct. And, yes, even the most experienced and highly regarded umpires get overruled by video replay technology and appeal processes every once in a while. In almost all of the games I have umpired, I was the only umpire on the field. No team of experts. Just me. A single umpire in that position has to do the job that otherwise takes four people to competently perform. 

As the only umpire covering a game, I have to be prepared for many different roles. I position myself behind the plate for most of the game, because that’s where most of my work will be done: calling balls and strikes. When a ball is hit onto the field, or a runner attempts a steal, I have to quickly jump up, remove my mask and find a physical space where I ensure that I have the clearest view on the play that I anticipate I’m going to need to call. 

With only one set of eyes, I use my knowledge and experience of the game, along with my expectations of the ability of the players on the field, to determine where I should look. First, I have to look at the trajectory of the batted ball. I have to make a determination of whether the ball was caught, or not, and where in relation to the dimensions of the field the ball contacted a fielder or the ground. At that point, if the ball is still live and in play I have more decisions to make about what to look at. 

Should I look at whether the runner who just hit the ball reaches first base before a play is made there? Or, based on where the ball was hit, and the skill of which fielder receives it, should I look at another runner who’s running from 1st, 2nd or 3rd base. I might need to determine whether one or multiple baserunners successfully make it to their next base. Luckily, there’s only one ball on play at any given time, so there is no need to make simultaneous calls on how a ball is played. However, the umpire has to pay attention to other happenings on that field that don’t relate to the ball, at all. 

For instance, baserunners are required to touch bases, and the umpire is responsible for observing such contact in case the opposing team appeals that a runner missed a base. Fielders are not allowed to obstruct baserunners in their progress around the bases, and umpires are responsible for recognizing such, and awarding baserunners the appropriate base as a penalty. Sometimes the umpire has to make assumptions about something that has happened on the field, because they can’t possibly witness simultaneous occurrences too far apart to physically observe in the same view. There is a lot going on in the field, and the umpire is expected to know what to look at, and have an objective perspective on everything they see. 

In situations when all of the meaningful attention is on one particular interaction on the field involving the ball, a fielder, and a baserunner, the umpire is in the best position, literally and figuratively, to make a call on a close play than any other actors, on and off the field. Players, coaches and fans are likely to be looking at that play subjectively: they are looking for what they want to happen, and, therefore, might see what might not have actually occurred. Umpires are most likely to be looking at what needs to be seen, and to see what actually happens. 

In one particular softball game this past spring, all of this crystallized for me. There was a close play on a runner advancing from 2nd to 3rd base on a ground ball. There was no one running from 1st to 2nd base, so there was no force on the play at 3rd base. The fielder could not simply touch the base after securing the ball before the runner arrived to make an out; the runner would need to be tagged by the fielder with the ball in their possession in order to make an out. From the position I took in front of home plate, between the catcher and the pitcher, after the ball passed the pitcher, I had a great view of the runner as they progressed to 3rd base. I could clearly see both relevant fielders: I looked at the shortstop as they received the ground ball, then turned towards 3rd base and threw the ball; I watched as the 3rd base player stepped on the base and outstretched their gloved hand to receive the throw; I watched the 3rd base player’s glove as the ball entered the pocket, and they brought their glove down to block the runner’s path to the base; I saw the runner attempt to avoid the tag by sliding in the dirt. It was close. The closest play I had to call all game, but not all season. I called the runner out. 

The fielders were thrilled. The runner accepted their fate and stood up and walked back towards their team’s dugout behind the first base line. I heard the moans and groans from the runner’s team in the first base dugout, and that team’s parents behind it. And I heard the coaches. Boy did I hear the coaches. One coach came out of the dugout with his arms over his head yelling at me. “Anyone watching that play saw that she was safe. THERE WAS NO WAY YOU SAW HER OUT.” He clearly saw the play differently than I did (or he was lying about what he saw in the hopes it would change my mind, but does that really work on an umpire? Please tell me “no”.) 

Based on his reaction, and the reactions of those around him, I believe he genuinely saw something completely different than I did. But what the coach and others saw is likely based on what they were looking for, and hoped to see. The coaches, players, and parents for the runner’s team were probably focused on the runner in the play. They saw their runner doing everything right. The coaches, players and parents for the runner’s team were probably not looking at the details of the fielders’ work. They were probably so focused on watching their player attempt the first slide of the game, that they didn’t see the third base player catch the ball and tag the runner before she made contact with 3rd base. They weren’t looking at it, or for it, and therefore didn’t see it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Though short on experience umpiring, I am long on experience coaching. I was not going to argue with the coach. I knew I had looked at all the right parts of the play. I called what I saw. There was no way I was overturning my own call. So, I simply turned to him, looked him in the eye, smiled and said “ok”. I was not agreeing with him and I was not going to change my call, either. I then looked past the coach into the dugout as I called for their next batter. The game went on. 

The runner’s team eventually won the game. It wasn’t even close. That call didn’t impact the outcome of the game. They were looking for the win, and they ultimately got what they were looking for, even if they didn’t get the call. 

You Don’t Mess with the Ump

By Filed Under: Sports

Any parent with a child involved in sports these days knows there is a shortage of officials, referees, umpires, etc. School, recreational, and travel/club leagues across the country are canceling games and shrinking tournaments because they cannot find the officials the need. Demand is high, and growing, after the COVID19 pandemic “sidelined” most sports. But, established officials are also leaving the game, and new blood is reluctant to step in. Why? Because there’s a serious problem with harassment and assault of officials.

We’ve all seen the news headlines: “Harassment causing umpires to quit in droves”; “NJ umpire, 72, with broken jaw, concussion sues coach over assault at youth game”; “Stalked into a dark parking lot: Umpires reveal their biggest fear”. Or how about this one: “[f]ormer NHL referee Tim Peel has been accused of berating two teenage referees following a youth hockey game in Missouri”. Seriously? This guy, in particular, should know better.

Over my 15 years of coaching, I have seen my fair share of harassment of officials, though nothing got violent. As a coach, I’ve stepped in between an umpire and a middle aged male coach, 50 pounds larger than me, to make clear the coach was out of line, and needed to step down; Luckily, he did. I’ve also had to remind parents to abide by the Prospect Park Baseball Association’s Rules, including a “Code of Conduct”. The Rules and Code prohibit “heckling”, “distracting & destructive comments”, and threats of any kind. The punishments include ejection, and bans from spectating. 

On a beautiful spring day a few years back, I had an uncomfortable interaction with a step-parent of a new player on our team. A long-time parent from my team let me know this new player’s parent was screaming unkind things at the umpire from their seat a few yards away from home plate. The offending parent was drinking alcohol, which might have contributed to their inappropriate behavior. In between innings, I told the parent that I hadn’t heard what they said, but I was told it was inappropriate. They told me they had the right to say whatever they wanted to; it was a public space. I reminded them they had agreed to the rules when they registered their child. I told them if they continued to harass the umpire, I would require them to leave, or the game would not continue. If their behavior continued beyond that, I would report them to the league, and ask that they be banned from spectating. That parent never returned to watch their child play; the child played with another team in subsequent seasons. I’m fine with that. My team doesn’t need that kind of energy.

Some leagues have responded to these problems with creative anti-harassment policies. The Little League of Deptford Township in New Jersey established a rule that requires any spectator found to be harassing a baseball umpire to serve as a volunteer umpire for three subsequent games before they’d be allowed to return as a spectator. So far, it seems the new rule is making a difference. I’m all for creativity, and I’m also all for stepping up to the plate to help kids. I heeded the call and became both a certified volleyball official and a baseball/softball umpire this past year. 

First up was attending a training for new volleyball officials. I have been playing volleyball competitively since I turned 14 years old. After 4 years of varsity Midwood High School play, I competed through intramurals in college. Since 1997, I have played on a women’s indoor team. I have lived through significant rules changes. I remember the days when you won a set by earning 15 points, not 25, and you could only earn a point on your own team’s serve. I played for years before there was a “Libero” (no matter which way you pronounce it). And, back in my day, you couldn’t touch the ball with your foot, or your head. After thousands of games, I know a “carry” and a “double” when I see it. So, I was pretty confident taking on this new role. 

My confidence only increased when sitting in that new officials training. Of the 20 or so people starting this new role, I was one of 5, maximum, that had ever played volleyball with an official in place. There were only 3 women in the room. We were all middle-aged moms, with experience as players at various levels. We all have teenage players, ourselves. The 2 other volleyball players were men at least a decade younger than the moms. The other 15 new officials in the room were middle-aged men, and older, with experience as basketball and/or baseball/softball officials. One such participant explained that after decades of work in basketball his knees were shot, and he heard that “retiring” to volleyball was the way to “stay in the game”. You see, basketball referees have to run up and down the court, and baseball/softball umpires need to bend & croutch, as well as move with a bunch of equipment on, even in the hot sun. Volleyball officials, on the other hand, just stand there. Literally.

For years, I scratched my head wondering why there were so many male volleyball referees, when the sport is dominated by players who identify as girls & women. Now I know the answer. The lack of experience playing the game also explained how so many volleyball officials struggled to appropriately identify a carry or a double; they probably never committed one for themself.

After completing 10 hours of online training, and participation in a four-hour in person meeting, I felt more than capable of serving in this new role. Then I tried it. In order to get certified, I needed to be observed by a seasoned official in a real tournament. I was assigned to serve as an official at a girls regional tournament for 15 year olds. I would be serving with another new official. We would take turns in the role of the “first referee” (the person who stands on the platform, and uses their whistle to initiate and end each point) and the “second referee” (who stands opposite the first referee on the ground, and keeps track of adherence to certain rules, and manages flow of substitutions and time-outs). My partner was not new to officiating volleyball, though he had no volleyball playing experience; he had just finished a season officiating for a local girls high school league. 

We agreed that my partner would serve as first referee in the first set of the match, with me as second referee; we’d switch roles in the second set. My partner was a decent first referee, and I learned the ropes as a second referee. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be but I understood that I would get better with time. Then it was my chance to serve as first referee. I was confident, and excited. Until I wasn’t.

I second guessed myself right away. I was constantly overthinking each contact of a player’s hands with the ball. I let a “double” call go that I knew I should have made. And then I let another “double” call go because I felt it evened things out for the teams. I let the next “double” call go, and saw the coaches express frustration towards me. I understood their feelings; I was NOT doing my job. And then, it got worse.

There was one particular point when I watched four different girls make consecutive touches to the ball before finally sending it over the net. I was shocked that these players, at this level, thought that was ok. The rule was you had a maximum of THREE contacts before the ball crossed the net. Why were they still playing the point? The coaches for both teams were jumping up and down and pointing at me. I then realized why the ball was still in play. I NEVER BLEW MY WHISTLE TO STOP THE PLAY. I wasn’t doing my job. I was failing in a role that I thought for sure I would succeed at.

After I finished my set, I sat for feedback from the experienced official observer. He gave me thoughtful and kind feedback, which lasted through my lunch break and into the time for my next assignment. He assured me that I would get better each time out. He said that everyone makes a mistake, or two, every game. You just get over it, and move on. He encouraged me to own my authority. He told me that coaches, players and parents will respect me, when I exude confidence, even if they don’t like my calls. 

The powers-that-be let me officiate another game that day, because they were likely desperate, and I was much better. Still not perfect. But better. I’ve officiated dozens of volleyball sets since then, and none have been perfect. I get better each time, and I worry less about my performance each time, too. I was confident I would feel the same as I took to the baseball and softball fields in Prospect Park, earlier this spring, as this long time coach became an umpire.

I haven’t played competitive softball since I was a young teenager. I have never played competitive baseball. But, I’ve been coaching recreational teams in the Prospect Park Baseball Association for more than 15 years. I am known for my solid understanding of the rules. I felt ready for this role, and for the most part, I’ve been up to the task. 

The hardest part, in general, is becoming consistent in calling a strike zone. Pitchers at the levels that I’m umpiring are very inconsistent. We are encouraged, as umpires, to define a strike zone that provides clarity and consistency to both pitchers and batters. My calls are for the players, not their coaches and parents.

I’ve gotten great feedback from coaches, so far this season, for the most part. And then there was last night…

Last night, I umpired a softball game for 11 and 12 year olds. The teams were unevenly matched. One team had depth in pitching, catching, hitting and fielding; the other team did not. By the bottom of the 2nd inning, it was 10-0. So, when I made a call that had never been made against the team that had not yet scored a run, it got a little heated.

At this particular level of softball in Prospect Park, base runners are allowed to lead and attempt to steal the next base. However, they have to wait until the catcher has control of the ball before leaving the bag. Last night, with a runner on first base, a pitch got past the catcher from the team that had the lead in score. The catcher scurried to get the ball, and as she picked up the ball, the runner on first attempted to steal 2nd base. The catcher took a strong step towards 2nd, and was about to throw the ball to allow the 2nd base player to tag out the runner, when she stopped quickly in her tracks; the batter had stepped backwards, out of the batter’s box, and was now directly in line between the catcher and second base. The catcher looked to me for a call. With slight hesitation, because I knew this was not something usually called at this level, I raised my fist, and called the batter out, for interference. 

The batter was confused, as was her coach. “What did she do wrong?” “She was trying to get out of the way.” “She didn’t mean to interfere.” “It’s not fair”. I could hear additional mumblings coming from the dugout, and the parents beyond, in foul territory. The coach claimed the batter was entitled to a warning; it was in the rules. I clarified that I did not believe the rules provided a warning, but if he found where it said in the rules that a warning was expected, I would provide a warning. He started looking through the rules, then said it would take too long to find it. He attempted to seek an agreement with the other coach that the batter should get a warning. I explained that this was not a negotiation: if the rules provided for a warning, I would do so. Otherwise, the batter was out. He relented, and we continued play.

In between innings, the coach challenged me again, telling me that since the batter’s box isn’t delineated with paint or chalk that the batter shouldn’t be held to it. I told him that didn’t matter. It was an out. I suggested he consider this a learning opportunity to his players: his players should be instructed to stay in the batter’s box in such a situation, to avoid an interference call.

The coach questioning me was frustrating, but nothing beyond the norm. I had seen coaches, like this, who did not know the rules, attempt to create rules they wanted to exist, and hope that the umpire would agree that such a rule SHOULD exist, and thus apply it. Unfortunately, this coach’s behavior simultaneously suggested to everyone else around me that they should feel entitled to question my authority, even if they too, had no idea what they were talking about. 

In between the next two innings, I was standing at the backstop fence, when a man approached and asked me if I could tell him the score. I explained that I could, but that if he wanted it authoritatively, he should check with the coaches. He then continued to tell me that the score is so lopsided against his team, that I should not have called the batter out for interference. He said something about me taking things “too seriously”… I quickly told him that he did not have the right to question me, and that he should stop talking to me right away. He continued. I told him to stop talking to me immediately, or I would stop the game. He told me the “game was already over…” I called upon the coach to inform this parent, and all others from his team, that if anyone harasses me again I would stop the game immediately, as per the rules of the organization and the Code of Conduct Policy. No one bothered me for the remainder of the game, and I walked away peacefully. I’ll be back out there again tonight, umping another game.

As a parent, and a coach, I understand the temptation to question an official. They. I mean, “we” sometimes get it wrong. I know I do. I’m assuming most other officials know they do, too. If a coach has a question about the application of a rule, by all means ask the official. If a parent has a question about a rule, by all means… ask the coach. Keep the official out of it. No one should ever question the judgment of the official to their face, or within earshot.

What could possibly benefit a player, coach or parent if they ultimately harass or assault an official? Absolutely nothing. And you know what it gets us? A shortage of fun and games for those that really matter, the kids.

Stop the harassment! And for those of you whose egos can handle the challenge, come on out, and join me. The kids need you, and I do, too.

The Kids Need Coaches, Part 2: Coaching Over Time

By Filed Under: Sports

Parents are forewarned, often before becoming a parent: parenting a teenager is no joke. Just google “parenting a teenager” and you see tons of books, blog posts and YouTube videos about “surviving” this stage of your parenting experience. Parenting a teen is “daunting”, “challenging” and just plain “hard”. However, there are no resources out there for coaching teenagers in sports. I’m here to tell you, coaches of teenagers need help. Or at least I do.

Parents are forewarned, often before becoming a parent: parenting a teenager is no joke. Just google “parenting a teenager” and you see tons of books, blog posts and YouTube videos about “surviving” this stage of your parenting experience. Parenting a teen is “daunting”, “challenging” and just plain “hard”. However, there are no resources out there for coaching teenagers in sports. I’m here to tell you, coaches of teenagers need help. Or at least I do.

Over the past eleven years, I have coached 12 recreational baseball teams for the Prospect Park Baseball Association. The 3 and 4 year olds I started coaching in 2011 are 14 and 15 years old, now. My first coaching experience, when the players were 3 and 4 playing t-ball, was akin to herding cats. 

In our t-ball season, players were easily distracted. They would lie down in the field when they were supposed to be playing first base. When a ball was hit in the field, all the fielders would run after it, and usually end up in a pile on top of the ball, and on top of each other. At the plate, batters would often stand there bewildered about what to do after making solid contact with the bat on the ball. Coaches and parents would scream at them to “run, run, run!” When they finally got the message, they might drop the bat (or not), and they would run, but not always towards 1st base. Sometimes they would run towards 3rd base. Other times they would run towards the pitcher. Sometimes they would simply cross their arms in protest and sit down at home plate. T-ball practices and games were scheduled for one hour once a week; those 60 minutes seemed like an eternity, sometimes. Most player’s favorite part of the experience was snack time after the game was over.

Over the years, players gained a growing understanding about the rules of the game, and improved their skills. Every season we had a new “first” experience in baseball. I remember the first caught fly balls; the first successful plays in the field involving two players; the first double-play; the first triple-play; the first stolen base; the first runner picked-off the base. I loved preparing our players for those firsts and then processing the challenges and successes of the experience. 

One of my favorite “firsts” was our first “player-pitched” game. After a few seasons of tball and then “coach pitched” games, we were ready for the first time our own players would pitch. In the Pony Division of the Prospect Park Baseball Association, players start to pitch to their own teammates. All our players were nervous. Our pitchers were afraid they would hit the batters, who were their friends. Our batters were afraid they would get hit by pitches. “The reality”, I explained to these 7 and 8 year olds, “is that each of you is going to get hit by a pitch at some point. It is likely going to hurt. But, you will not die. I promise”. I’m not sure if they believed me, or not. So, to break the tension and provide some levity, we all wore stick-on mustaches to that first game. Seriously. It worked. Some batters got hit, but there were many more smiles than hit batters that day.

As a coach for recreational, not “travel”, baseball teams, I always aim to make the experience fun, and not solely focus on the competition. In the early years, I gave out coloring sheets of famous baseball players from history, like Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente. As the kids got older, I gave out 1980s/90s-era unopened baseball card packs at the end of each game. Many packs still had sticks of gum intact inside the wrapper. I provided a warning, and claimed no responsibility for any gastric-upset they might experience if they chewed the 30 year old gum. The players loved receiving these cards. They would jockey for the best spot in our huddle in order to choose the pack they most desired. While they were all hoping to score an invaluably rare rookie card (which never happened), they ended up learning about players and teams they never knew existed. 

Each year, players learned more about the game of baseball. The rules we played under would adjust every two years or so to meet their changing developmental stage, both physically and cognitively. In the first season, in 2011, the t-ball field had 30 foot base paths. Every player batted every inning. Each batter got 10 swings to make solid contact with the ball. No walks or strikeouts. No score recorded. Over the years, the rules adjusted over each of the 6 subsequent levels of play. The fields got bigger and bigger, and the rules got more complicated. We started stealing bases 6 years ago. We started leading before the pitch 3 years ago. Last season it became real: We are, finally, playing “major league rules” on a real baseball field. 90 foot basepaths. 60 feet 6 inches from the tip of home plate to the front of the pitcher’s rubber. Infield fly rule applies. Balks called without warning. Our players are finally deemed developmentally ready to play “real” baseball. But, there are some developmental realities that I am not fully prepared for: adolescence of my players.

Search the internet for “signs of adolescent behavior” and you get a list that includes: moodiness and irritability, verbal aggression, lack of frustration tolerance, low impulse control, withdrawal, defiance and testing limits, concern about physical appearance, struggle with sense of identity, sleeping harder and longer, sexual experimentation, selfishness and abandoning commitments. With the exception of the sleep and sex issues, I’m seeing the rest on the baseball field, for kids on my team and in our competition.

The mood swings, and emotional challenges of adolescence definitely impacts my ability to effectively coach my players. Kids that once were so clear in what they wanted or didn’t want, and able to articulate their emotions (e.g. happy, excited, scared, sad or mad) are way more complicated now. A kid that was so confident in past years, could still be confident, but could just as likely become terrified, in the same at bat. As a result of their developmental changes, my ability to logically reason with players, especially with my inflection of humor, can be completely useless now. Younger kids that would nod their head in understanding and agreement, and resultantly make simple changes to their behavior a few years ago, might still nod their head and seem to listen, but are also just as likely to disagree with me or just plain ignore me. In the past, I could count on my understanding of who a particular player was. These days, I don’t know which personality of a given player I’m going to see on a particular day. All of this makes it really hard to prepare, or predict, skills that are central to the role of a coach.

Most central to my role of coach has always been my ability to help a player feel good about themselves. Players all present with different strengths and challenges, but everyone improves when they make the effort. In past years, I could rely upon my ability to support a kid through their emotional struggles by highlighting for them their improvement so far, and point to opportunities for continuing growth. This does not work with most teenage players. They’re more likely to be focused on what certain other kids think about them, or pretending they’re not focused on what certain other kids think about them. As a result, many players seem set on not looking like they care about the game, or how they’re playing, even if deep down they really do. For a coach, this is extremely frustrating. 

As I reflect on the challenge I’m experiencing coaching teenagers, I’ve come to realize that I’m experiencing a sort of adolescent period of my own, as a coach. I’m definitely feeling moody and irritable. My inclination towards verbal aggression has never been stronger. I feel my frustration tolerance waning and my impulse control is on the fritz. I’m definitely struggling with my sense of identity. Even with all the challenges I’m experiencing in this phase of my development as a coach, I am not abandoning my commitments. Instead, I’m doubling-down and ready to own my maturity as an “adult” coach. 

A simple internet search on the developmental tasks of adulthood highlight milestones of “achieving autonomy, establishing one’s identity and developing emotional stability”. After 12 years in this role, I think I can be the adult coach I want to be. To start, I can acknowledge that the most important part of being an “adult” coach of child athletes is recognizing that kids are kids, no matter what stage of development they are in. I am sure that I want my identity as a coach to be still centered on being “fun”. So, I just ordered more baseball card packs from the 1980s and 1990s to give out to players after the game this week. Some packs will likely have 30 year old gum sticks inside. Depending on how I feel after their performance, I’m not sure if I’ll provide my usual disclaimer, and warn them about the potential for gastric-upset if they choose to chew the gum. Maybe, I’m not as mature as I think I am. There’s always room for development.

Pablo Forever: Memorializing a Brooklyn Native, While Planting Seeds and Learning to Ollie.

By Filed Under: Park Slope Life, Sports

Pablo Ramirez. © Pablo Ramirez Foundation.

“Pablo wanted people to live in the present,” said New York City skater, Erik Rivera, during a phone interview. “The one time I skated with him was like magic. He just had this positive energy— and he made people more positive about their vibes.”

Pablo Ramirez, known to the skating community as “P-Splifff,” was a New York City native, musician, artist, and professional skateboarder. He was raised in Park Slope, where he lived with his mother, Loren Michelle—a chef, business owner, and world traveler. His father is a New York City attorney. Ramirez excelled at friendly and competitive sports, including ice hockey, cycling, and street-skating. His friends can’t recall a time when he was without a skateboard. High-impact sports provided Ramirez with true autonomy. He often said that he felt “alive” while gliding through urban environments and pushing his body past its physical limits. Through the visual and performing arts, Ramirez was able to find creative freedom and individuality. At a young age, he discovered the philosophy of expressionism through music, particularly through the language and melodies of classical jazz. He studied music at Edward R. Murrow High School, and later on, at The New School. As a teenager, Ramirez asserted his knowledge of music into the public sphere by playing at jazz clubs, bars, and venues. At the time, Brooklyn’s DIY music scene fluctuated between jazz and new wave punk. 

“He really understood the language of music and was able to read music from an early age,” Loren Michelle told me, over the phone. Michelle purchased a drum set for Ramirez when he was a child. 

“We played a lot of shows together,” said New York City musician, Sammy Weissberg. Weissberg is one of Ramirez’s oldest childhood friends. The two formed a close bond over a shared appetite for classical jazz. Sammy remembers Ramirez as both a “magnetic” person who was beloved by everyone who met him, and an “adrenaline junkie” who was often testing the boundaries of whatever obstacle blocked his way to the next great success. 

“Pablo was this really energetic person who made a lot of noise,” Weissberg said. “His confidence transcended past skating— it was just how he lived his life. He was not afraid of failure.” 

Sammy Weissberg later played a tribute to Ramirez at his memorial. 

Pablo Ramirez moved to San Francisco in his early 20’s and quickly broke into the West Coast skate scene as one of the fastest and most fearless skaters in the city. He was recruited by the novel GX1000 crew— a band of loosely structured amateur and professional skaters— all living in Northern California’s Bay Area. The Crew is internationally recognized for their clothing label, signature stunts, and daring hill bombs— a high-speed and downhill skating move that is synonymous with the city’s topographical rollercoaster of cemented one-way streets and iconic steep hills. The art of hill bombing is unrelenting in nature. The result, if not done methodically, can be brutal. Riding with a full squad provides a marginal safety net for skaters. “Spotters” stand at the bottom of the hills, timing traffic lights and obstructing motorists’ routes. Employing spotters allows skaters to ride through busy intersections without hesitation or fear of collision. One of the defining moments of Ramirez’s skateboarding career was when he ollied over the hood of an El Camino to avoid an accident. 

“Pablo fell in love with San Fran,” said Michelle. “The skate scene is like nothing else.” San Francisco is commonly referred to as the “Mecca” for street skaters and bombers. “They [GX1000] studied the roads and the hills; they timed the traffic lights. They really understood speed,” she explained. 

Photographs and online video releases of GX1000 members, racing down winding roads, crossing residential streets, dodging traffic, and sliding through busy intersections, can be found on the group’s Instagram account, and in publications like GQ, Awaysted, Lowcard, and Thrasher. 

“I remember saying to Pablo, ‘Dude, you’re on freaking Thrasher!’” exclaimed Jon Fitzgerald, during a phone interview. This was a critical moment for both Ramirez and Fitzgerald— who suddenly recognized the staunch confidence and raw talent that encompassed Ramirez’s bold skating practice and “life is beautiful” attitude. His uniquely gifted ability was suddenly coupled with fame. Thrasher, the San Francisco-based magazine company and “Bible” of all skateboarding publications, is known for being brash. The magazine’s website routinely features amateur videos of body slams and violent falls from stairways and elevated rails. 

Fitzgerald is an experienced chef, veteran skateboarder, and longtime friend of Ramirez’. The two met at a Brooklyn skate park in their late teens and maintained a close friendship even after Ramirez relocated to San Francisco. It wasn’t long before Ramirez received sponsorship from national brands and traveled the world to skate for major companies and various crews. 

“Pablo was mad good but anyone could skate with him. He just had that type of energy,” said Fitzgerald. 

Loren Michelle and Herve Riou. © Pablo Ramirez Foundation.

On the morning of April 23, 2019, Jon Fitzgerald sent Pablo Ramirez a text. As the day progressed, Fitzgerald questioned why Ramirez had not responded. It was not in his nature to ghost his friends. Ultimately, a coworker showed Fitzgerald a major news headline that would forever change him. Ramirez had been fatally struck by a dump truck in San Francisco’s SoMa district. He was 26.

Ramirez’s death shocked the skating community. Thousands of love-filled messages appeared on his Instagram account. Soliloquies of grief and gratitude were met with anecdotes from those he loved and inspired. Tony Vitello, the publisher of Thrasher magazine, said of Ramirez: “Very few skateboarders change the way we see skateboarding. Pablo did just that.” 1

Thrasher later hosted a post-memorial block party in honor of Ramirez’s extraordinary legacy. 

“In the shadows of loss, grief can turn into love,” wrote Loren Michelle, in an Instagram post, shortly before inaugurating her plans for a foundation, dedicated to the life and legacy of her adored son. The Pablo Ramirez Foundation is a space that fosters healthy living, positive vibes, and self-expression through the arts, culture, and skateboarding. The Foundation has hosted public events, including skate park cleanups, skateboarding lessons, art openings, and concerts; and also provides grants and scholarships to kids and young people in need. Inspired by Ramirez’s ethos of “giving more and taking less,” the Foundation aims to use its resources to make lasting changes in the lives of Brooklyn’s youth. Recently, the Foundation teamed up with Homage Skateboard Academy to offer a free week of skateboarding camp and a complete new skateboard to one student. 

One of the earliest undertakings of the Pablo Ramirez Foundation was painting a memorial mural at Washington Skate Park located behind MS 51. The mural, titled, Pablo Forever, is the beginning of many future murals and public art events. A second mural, in collaboration with contemporary artist, Steve “ESPO” Powers, is currently in development. The mural will be installed at Golconda Skate Park in Dumbo. 

Pablo Forever Mural in Brooklyn. © Erik Rivera

The murals are a powerful tribute to Ramirez whose life was shaped by the visual arts. Not long before his passing, Ramirez’s work hung in San Francisco galleries. He created over 2,500 artworks in the last few years. 

A leading project of the Foundation is to create an all-inclusive skate park and garden, ideally located in central Brooklyn. The project, called Brooklyn Skate Garden, is inspired by the lifestyle Ramirez led. Peace, good vibes, kindness, gratitude, and environmentalism are embedded in the spirit of the project. The multifaceted skate park and gardens will serve as a space for youth to find community while skating, creating art, listening to live music, and planting seeds. The idea for the skate park initially came from a group of teenage skaters who envisioned an all-encompassing park in the heart of Brooklyn. 

“Skate parks are kind of an afterthought,” Michelle remarked. She explained how NYC skate parks are often uninviting and unmaintained— and commonly located on the outskirts of cities and under bridges. “The fundamental question is, ‘how can we make a skate park, not like a skate park? How can we make a skate park that is for everyone?’” As a skater herself, it is paramount to Michelle that skaters of all ages feel a sense of belonging in the skate community.

“Skateboarding is the energy behind the skate garden, but it’s really about culture, music, and art,” she told me. “The park gives kids a place to come and to be part of a community.” 

Earlier this year, the Brooklyn Skate Park received an endowment of $300K from Council District 39’s participatory budgeting ballot. The response to the conceptualization of the park has been overwhelmingly positive. 

“Pablo would be so happy to see the whole community, not just the skate community, come together to do something for the youth,” said Rivera. “We [skaters] want to leave a good path for them. Pablo would be astonished. He would want to reciprocate that energy.” 

“Pablo would think the skate park is sick,” said Fitzgerald. “He doesn’t want us to be sad, you know? His energy is still here.” 

Fitzgerald’s voice grew quiet at the remembrance of his friend. Pablo Ramirez, one most intrepid skaters of our time, was so much more than a professional athlete. His attitude and lifestyle influenced the entire culture of skateboarding by making it more accepting— more inclusive. Compassion for others was the only thing to exceed his talent on a skateboard. 

I thought about what Pablo meant when he told others to “live in the present.” I thought about the definition of failure and wondered how he, a man I would never meet, wasn’t afraid to fail. How liberating that must have been for him and for those around him. 

Softly, Fitzgerald whispered, “I do miss him.” 

1 Sullivan, Denise. “The Legacy of Skateboarder Pablo Ramirez.” San Francisco Examiner, San Francisco Examiner Media Company, 23, May 2019,https://www.sfexaminer.com/news-columnists/the-legacy-of-skateboarder-pablo-ramirez/.

Play Ball

By Leave a Comment Filed Under: Sports

When it comes to sports, New York is a baseball city.  A paced game like baseball offers relief to a metropolitan area that can grind and aggress us at times.  We have thirty-five championships in baseball alone.  To put that in terms of bragging rights, that’s one more ring than Boston, the next championed city, has in the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB combined.  Some of the game’s best players made their names among the bright lights and concrete.  But funny enough, per capita, not many native New Yorkers make it to the big leagues compared to players from the rest of the country.

What’s the culprit?  Is it a lack of facilities, a shortage of youth programs, or an excess of hoop dreams?  “It’s just the time that you put in,” says Adam Ottavino, Major League pitcher for the Colorado Rockies and Park Slope native.  At the age of four, Adam moved to the neighborhood from Greenwich Village and describes the Slope of his childhood as a little more “quiet” than what it’s transformed in to.  “The F train is still there.  The park is still the same.  All the pizza joints I used to go to after games are all still there, like Smiling and Roma’s.  It’s definitely still Park Slope.”

So pizza survives gentrification, but what about this myth that New Yorkers don’t usually make it into the big leagues?  “There’s quite a few of us,” Adam defends.  “Pedro Beato, Dellin Betances on the Yankees, Chris Manno—” Adam rattles off a few more names before talking about the camaraderie inherent in a shared birthplace.  “I definitely see those guys around.  Sometimes we train together in Garden City, and Dellin and I have thrown around in the Park Slope Armory during the off-season a few times.”  He touches on how much the city has to offer by way of distractions, and how that might discourage some youths from taking their game to the next level.  Sacrificing the weekend for a bus ride to an away game instead of exploring or causing mischief is not every city kid’s idea of a good time, but it has clearly paid off for Adam.

Adam as a youngster playing in the local 78th Precinct Youth Council baseball program.

He was drafted thirtieth overall by the St. Louis Cardinals in 2006 with great expectations after putting up some crushing numbers at Northeastern University.  His first start came in 2010 when he was called up from AAA Memphis Redbirds, but living out the lifelong dream was bittersweet.  “I was so excited to be called up, but it was difficult because I wasn’t 100% healthy, but I wanted to step up and pitch well anyway.”  Like a true gamer Adam battled through it, and after his 2012 trade to the Rockies he is set to play a bigger role out of the bullpen.  “I’m definitely looking forward to more innings.”

Between spring training, AAA, and the regular season, Adam has played pretty much everywhere, and when asked how the rest of the USA stacks up to Park Slope, he jokingly blurts “They’re terrible.” “Don’t get me wrong,” he continues, “there are a lot of nice parts, but I feel like Park Slope is one of the best neighborhoods in the country.  Traveling around definitely made me realize that.”  He mentions Pork Slope and Fonda as some eateries he frequents when he’s back on the block, but his fondest memories were made in Prospect Park.  “I’ve played on every field in the city, pretty much, but the park is special. I would play catch for hours with my Dad down there.”

The grind of the city certainly helped Adam make it to the major league mound.  People hustle nonstop just to live in this city, and with only few days off in the world of professional baseball, this lesson in patience is invaluable.  “I remember double, triple headers in the park after school.  We were out there because we loved the game.  I still love it, obviously, but it’s just different.”

Adam clearly has pride on his side.  He recalls the old Sinatra lyric about “making it here” and his matter-of-fact tone makes his level of determination and hustle sound natural for a kid with a dream, but clearly that’s not the case.  When I press him to name a mentor that he could credit with his success, he mentions his Dad and a few coaches, but makes it clear that it comes from within.  “Coaches can be good or bad, and the facilities in other parts of the country are insane compared to here, but mainly it’s just the time that people put in with me and other kids back then.  That’s what was most important to me.  The time adults spent with us as kids.”  You can’t play catch with yourself and you can’t make it to the Rockies without starting up a slope.