But now that I am volunteering to help coach my kids during their first team-sports endeavor, I now know that everything I took for granted about the sport--why you throw to the cut-off man, how to steal signs, that you look really cool tapping the mud off your spikes with the knob end of the bat--is not intuitive.

The kids, now 41Ž2 but considered 5 by the high and mighty officials of Little League Baseball International, played their first official T-ball game last Wednesday evening.

Boy, have we got our work cut out for us.

Our T-ball team--10 players, ages (officially) 5 to 7--took the field in our opener and gave up 10 straight hits. That's because in T-ball, every player bats in every inning, and every batter gets a hit, stopping on first base whether the ball leaves the infield or dribbles a few feet off the tee.

The game precedes thusly for three innings, at which time the game ends, the kids give a cheer to the other team, trade high-fives and get their snacks, which seems to be the only reason they go through the whole process in the first place. No score was kept, and surprisingly, no one asked who won.

Now, I thought my kids--who sat with me on countless summer evenings watching the San Francisco Giants on TV--would at least have a solid basis to begin that quest for baseball knowledge. After all, they can identify just about every player by sight and wanted to know why Benito Santiago, who was on the team two years ago, wasn't around any longer.

Again, my preconceptions about baseball knowledge were dead wrong.

The boy, who was playing--er, standing--at the shortstop position, was near tears because none of the hits were coming toward him and he wanted to field them. My explanation that it was a long game and he'd get his chances eventually didn't assuage his disappointment. To make matters worse, the girl, who was playing--er, standing--at second base fielded two ground balls in the first inning.

I say "fielded," like she scooped up a couple of blistered choppers on the short-hop, but in reality, she was the one kid to come out of a six-player scrum on the pitcher's mound with the ball. She was so proud of her fielding acumen that she stood there admiring the ball while the batter chugged to first. Eventually, Coach Rich was able to convince her to throw the ball in, and the game continued.

When it was our turn to bat, the boy--batting clean-up, by the way--sent a line-drive to the left side of the diamond. I was coaching first base, and when he reached the bag, I put my hand out and said, "great hit, give me five!" The opposing first baseman, also standing on the base, complied.

As the first-base coach, it was my job to make sure the base runners knew their next stop would be second base, so I quizzed them, and they all knew the answer: Second base. Yet, when the next batter hit the ball and I told them to run, they took off in whatever direction they happened to be facing at the time. Most often, they were not facing second base.

The girl, who was batting fifth in the order, laid down a great bunt and moved her brother over to second. This time I got high-fives from the girl and the first baseman.

So now the girl is on first and the boy is on second and I'm busting with pride, as my kids obviously know how to play the game. When the next batter hits the ball, though, reality comes crashing down.

The boy, standing on second base--and still smarting over not getting to field a ground ball in the top of the first-- watched as the next batter sent a line drive up the middle, past second base, and into center field. Seeing that there were no fielders around, the boy turned and ran after it, determined to field a ball even if he was wearing a batting helmet.

It's going to be a long season.

Gregory Watkins, the editor of the Almaden Resident, can be reached at 408.200.1066 or at gwatkins@community-newspapers.com.