The Best and Worst of Little League
Volunteering as a Little League coach, umpire, board member, and eventually president was one of the most meaningful—and most chaotic—experiences of my life. At its best, it was pure joy: being on the field, working directly with my children and their teammates, teaching the game, and watching them grow in confidence and character. At its worst, it was a front-row seat to adult egos run amok, with the scoreboard too often overshadowing the scoreboard of life lessons that really matter.
The heart of Little League is, and should always be, the kids. Coaching them was a privilege. Whether it was watching a timid player finally connect for their first hit, seeing teammates encourage one another after a tough inning, or simply enjoying the chaos and laughter of practice—those moments were the reason I signed up. There’s a unique magic in youth sports that exists far beyond wins and losses. It’s about learning, developing resilience, discovering joy in effort, and being part of something bigger than yourself.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a perfect coach by any stretch of the imagination. There was the time my son was pitching, and he had given up a home run and a couple of walks. I called time to pay a mound visit when my son tried to wave (or shoo) me back to the dugout, I told him to "Get your head out of your @##." We were both frustrated before I got to the mound, so my words weren't helpful (and not my best parenting or coaching moment either). In another pitching "incident," I allowed a young player to come in as a relief pitcher. He had begged me at every practice and game for weeks to allow him to pitch. I knew he wasn't ready... I sent him out to the pitching mound anyway, hoping for the best. After he walked 6 batters in a row (without throwing a strike), I went to the mound and relegated him to right field... In hindsight, I wish I had worked with him more so that he was better prepared (and that I hadn't caved to his request).
Looking back, I know I wasn’t immune to poor judgment or pressure. But those moments, embarrassing as they were, taught me that humility and growth are far more important than winning any game. But all too often, that lesson gets drowned out by the noise from the sidelines.
As president of our league, I faced the unfortunate reality that some adults put their own egos ahead of the kids. I dealt with parents trying to relive their own athletic glory through their children—pushing too hard, criticizing too loudly, and forgetting that this game was supposed to be fun. I witnessed others attempting to bend or break the rules just to gain an edge on the scoreboard, as if youth baseball was a stepping stone to some professional dream, rather than a stage for growth and camaraderie.
Some used their roles as volunteers or administrators to seek advantages for their child’s team—subtle manipulations that eroded trust and undermined the spirit of fair play. That was the most disheartening part of leading the league: managing the politics and misplaced priorities of adults who had forgotten that youth sports are not about them.
Our "competitive Tee Ball" division was one of those areas where there were already problems. What was intended to be a lighthearted, developmental experience for five-, six-, and seven-year-olds had became a proving ground for adults who had lost sight of the purpose of youth sports. Parents shouted at umpires over calls that didn't matter. Coaches argued with each other, lobbied to stack teams with older, stronger players, and instructed their players to make fundamentally unsound plays to take advantage of Byzantine rule loopholes. The joy and discovery that should define tee ball were often replaced by pressure, frustration, and confusion for the children on the field.
Rather than addressing the root causes of the dysfunction—unchecked competitiveness and misplaced priorities—league administrators leaned into the problem. They formalized standings, hosted all-star games, and implemented a playoff bracket for six-year-olds. These rules weren’t built to foster teamwork, teach fundamentals, or help kids fall in love with the game. They were crafted to validate adult egos. The result was a structure that encouraged adults to treat a child's first exposure to baseball as if it were the Little League World Series. In trying to legitimize their own competitiveness, the adults inadvertently undermined the very growth and joy the league was meant to nurture.
And as any adult who has participated in youth sports knows, these problems don't just go away as the kids progress. The kids get older and they move up levels... and their parents come with them, with all the bad habits and animosities they learned at the previous levels.
I was lucky that we moved into this league after my son was too old for Tee Ball. He played in a developmental league when he was five years old, Tee Ball in the first half of the season, and "coach pitch" in the second. When he moved up a level at seven years old, it was coach pitch the first half of the season and "kid pitch" the second. By the time he was eight- and nine-years-old, he was ready to compete with kids his own age, and we were doubly lucky that he mainly played on teams with good coaches and managers (me notwithstanding).
So, when I became president of the league, once my son started middle school, I truly wasn't ready for the craziness to come. I thought stepping into a leadership role would mean organizing schedules, ordering uniforms, and maybe handing out trophies at the end of the season. Instead, I often found myself less like a league president and more like a crisis manager for adults. Week after week, I mediated shouting matches between coaches, issued warnings to parents berating umpires, and fielded emergency calls over sideline confrontations that escalated far beyond what any Saturday youth game should entail.
When I moved from the dugout to the boardroom, the stakes changed. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a coach trying to help a group of kids—I was the one responsible for keeping the league itself from unraveling.
Some of the biggest challenges came from coaches who embodied a “win at all costs” mentality. These weren’t just competitive people—they were adults who treated every youth game like Game 7 of the World Series. They ran up scores, manipulated lineups, and bent rules not for the kids, but for the scoreboard. And while I’ll be the first to admit I love winning and hate losing, that mindset robs the kids of something essential.
The most surreal part was dealing with parents of 10-year-olds convinced that their child’s future athletic scholarship was on the line because they only played three innings instead of four. These weren't one-off concerns—they came bundled in long emails, accusations of favoritism, and ultimatums about pulling kids from the league. And the coaches? Some couldn’t even pretend to get along, letting old grudges play out through passive-aggressive lineup decisions or loud confrontations in front of the kids. It stopped being about teaching the game and started to feel like a proxy war for adult egos. What should have been a community effort to build confidence and camaraderie in children too often became a theater of insecurity and misplaced ambition.
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| CVLL President Joseph Boeke, presenting the 2011 Grace Chase Sportsmanship Award to Jason Crosthwaite. |
And I kept coaching. I kept showing up for practices and games, especially when my daughter was on the field. Every time I laced up my cleats and walked onto the diamond, the noise of the adult world faded just a little. There was something grounding in helping a kid make their first catch or watching a team cheer each other on after a tough inning.
I remember sitting near the dugout during one of my daughter’s games, listening to the girls shout their chants and rhymes while their team was up to bat. That dugout energy was pure magic—supportive, silly, loud, and full of joy. One of their cheers stuck with me:
Do it again, we liked it, we liked it.
Do it again, We liked it, We liked it.
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| Faith playing softball for her Kiwanis Club team in 2011. |
Youth sports are supposed to be where kids learn teamwork, resilience, and sportsmanship—not where they become pawns in an adult’s quest for validation. When the focus shifts from development to domination, the kids lose more than a game—they lose a chance to discover joy, teamwork, and the quiet confidence that comes from simply being allowed to grow.
Don’t get me wrong—I value many of the adult friendships I made during my time in the league, even the complicated ones. By the time my son reached his freshman year of high school baseball, I had only managed to see him play two or three times. Running the league had slowly replaced watching my own son play the game we both loved. Mediating adult conflicts became work. Watching kids play was joy. So I stepped away—not from baseball, but from the chaos—and returned to my favorite title: Dad. Not a dad trying to outcoach or outmaneuver other dads. Just a dad in the stands, cheering his kids on.
In the end, what Little League gave me wasn't just a front-row seat to my children's growth—it gave me a deeper understanding of my own. It reminded me that youth sports aren't about crafting champions; they’re about building character. They're not about polishing résumés for future scholarships; they're about teaching kids how to fail, try again, and love the game anyway. And maybe, if we’re lucky, they teach us grown-ups a little something too—about humility, patience, and the importance of knowing when to step back and let the kids lead the way. What mattered most wasn’t the final scores or standings. It was watching my kids—and so many others—learn how to stand tall after a strikeout, celebrate a teammate’s success, and fall in love with a game that gives far more than it ever takes. That’s the meaning I found beyond the scoreboard. And that’s what I’ll carry with me long after the chaos has faded.
