They were ready, but I couldn't send them out to the diamond without saying something to ease their tension, without offering some words of advice, without answering their last-minute questions.

After all, I was their coach.

"OK, men," I began, trying desperately to remember the speech Paul Douglas had delivered to the troops as Guffy McGovern, the manager of the Pirates in Angels in the Outfield (the original, of course). "This is the day we've all been waiting for, and I know we're ready."

I went on to tell them that those guys over there were no better than they were; I reminded them of the structure for cut-offs to home; and I went over the signs for the steal, the bunt and the hit and run.

All that covered, I said, "OK, men. Any questions?"

Kevin's hand shot up in the air.

"Yeah, Dad ... er, I mean, coach," he said. "Do you know what we're having for treats today?"

Treats? We're playing the biggest game of our lives, and they're worried about treats? What's wrong with 7-year-olds today, I thought.

It's funny how kids have a way of putting things in perspective. Sure, they want to hit home runs, pitch no-hitters and make diving catches ... but whether they do or not doesn't much matter, as long as they can go home with a cupcake and a boxed fruit drink.

I know the story all too well, because for about 15 years or so I spent the spring coaching youth baseball teams.

But as Little League teams throughout the area prepare to celebrate the opening of another season this week, I'm not. With my oldest son now a high school coach and my youngest a few years removed from the game, I've retired as a coach.

And the only thing I can say is ... I have my Saturdays back!

Oh, don't get me wrong—I loved my years as a coach. The kids were great, some of the parents became lasting friends, the games were fun and exciting, and I learned some important lessons ... like how to eat sunflower seeds without using my hands.

But there are definitely some things I don't miss:

* the parents who spend hours telling you why they think their son should be playing shortstop and batting cleanup but who can't see the very basic reasons—he can't catch, and he can't hit;

* the dads who coach their kids through the back door of the dugout and don't have the first clue what they're talking about;

* and that for more than five months every year, the trunk of my car was transformed into a baseball equipment shed, complete with a layer of dust from the diamond that never really would come all the way out.

And there are many things I'll never forget.

There was the year that Jeremy's mother and Jeff's father started dating during the preseason and were quite a hot couple by the time the playoffs rolled around ... which would have been a rather romantic happily-ever-after story had Jeff's father not still been married to Jeff's mother at the time!

There was little Michael, who was actually a pretty good pitcher for a 9-year-old. But I always knew the precise moment when it was time for a pitching change—because he'd start to cry ... usually with the bases loaded. I would walk slowly to the mound, check for tears, then give the call to the bullpen. Felipe Alou should have it so easy (trust me, Felipe, if Kirk Reuter starts crying, get him outta there!).

And then there was Dominic. He's one guy I'll never forget.

This little guy was as round as he was tall, and he wasn't much of a player. But one day in a T-ball game he smacked a line drive into center field and was off and running.

He turned the corner at first and was racing for second with all the determination of Miguel Tejada legging out a double. Unfortunately, the shortstop was there waiting for him ... with the baseball.

But Dominic was undaunted. He simply took a hard right turn and kept on running into right field, with the shortstop in hot pursuit.

Dominic ran for all he was worth. He zigged and he zagged to avoid the attempted tags of the little shortstop behind him. He ran through right field, center, the middle of the infield and foul territory, and he eventually made it back to home plate, even if he never did come close to third.

Still, it was a home run in Dominic's mind, and he was as proud as any big leaguer who ever hit one over the center field wall.

Baseball ... what a game!

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.