We won't complain too much when the Golden State Warriors' Mike Montgomery sets up Mike Dunleavy for a buzzer shot instead of getting the basketball to Baron Davis for a drive inside, and we won't judge Ron Wilson too harshly if he ... well, we probably won't judge him at all since we'll all just be happy to have the San Jose Sharks back on the ice.

But for baseball managers Felipe Alou and Ken Macha, it's a different story. Every time they put up a pinch hitter or make a pitching change, we'll be on them like Eric Chavez on a hanging curve ball.

The reason is quite simple. We may have played a little football or basketball in high school, and all we know about hockey is that it's a little like soccer played on ice ... but with a lot more contact. Yet, when it comes to baseball, all of us have played Little League, and most of it have coached it, too. So when it comes to the strategy of the diamond, we're all experts—and we obviously know as much about the game as Felipe and Ken.

Take me, for example. With two sons, I coached Little League, Pony League and all of those other leagues—so I put in enough years to qualify for my baseball pension.

So when Macha went to the mound to yank Rick Harden with one on and two out in the seventh last Wednesday night, I knew it was a mistake—even before Kiko Calero gave up the two-run homer to blow the lead.

You see, I've made that long walk to the mound many, many times through the years. And I'm a savvy enough veteran to read pitchers.

Take little Mike, for example. He was our ace for about four or five years. He threw hard for a 10-year-old and he had pretty good control, most of the time.

But I always knew exactly when to get him out of the game, and it had nothing to do with a few wild pitches, a hit batsmen or the long ball.

It was when he started crying.

I'm not talking weeping, mind you. If he only had a few tears in his eyes, he was good to go for a few more hitters. But when that bottom lip started to tremble and he began sobbing uncontrollably—call it a coach's instincts, but I knew it was time to go to the bullpen.

This was before the 1992 release of the movie, A League of Their Own, so we didn't know yet that "there's no crying in baseball." In the early '90s there was plenty of crying—usually when little Mike had walked the bases loaded and the other team's big hitter was coming to the plate.

So I would walk to the mound, give him a little pat on the back and ask, "How are you feeling?"

He could barely talk, but he'd choke out a faint, "Fine."

So I'd ask, "Do you think you can get this next guy?"

"I don't know," he'd say.

"Do you think I should get someone else in here?" I'd say.

"I don't know," he'd answer again.

"Would you like me to take you out?" I'd finally ask. And with that, he'd burst into tears.

Well, you didn't have to hit me in the head with the Louisville Slugger ... I knew it was time for a little relief.

So maybe Macha could pick up a few pointers from those us who have been managing clubs for years down in the youth leagues. After all, we really know our stuff.

So, Ken, here's a little piece of free advice ... if you go out to the mound and Harden's crying, get him outta there. Otherwise, let the guy pitch.

Oh, and as for that part about us not questioning Mike Nolan's calls? Don't bet on it.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.