Learning to Lie

Growing up in Eatontown, NJ. There were two Little League teams in town; The Smoke Eaters, sponsored by the volunteer fire department, and the Hawks, sponsored by the local Catholic church. The two teams couldn’t have been more different, in that the Smoke Eaters frequently made it to state and regional tournaments, while the Hawks could hardly win a game. I can’t explain the discrepancy. Maybe the firemen/dad coaches were more aggressive than the church-going/dad coaches. Who knows?

I, of course, played for the Hawks. Even within the lower achieving church team, I stood out as having no discernible baseball ability. When I played the outfield,  baseballs would sail right by my outstretched fielder’s glove. The other outfielders on my team would skew their positions so as to be closer to me. In case balls would come my way, one of the other guys could run behind me and field the balls that I usually missed. Opposing batters would step up to the plate and point at my position on the field, ala Babe Ruth, indicating that they were going to try to hit to me. The coach moved me to the catcher’s position to keep me out of trouble I guess. Then when the other team saw it was me catching, they stole bases at will.

So, the coaches worked with me on my batting and fielding skills, spending hours of their time helping me be a better person and baseball player, in accordance with the Little League mission statement, to wit;

“Through proper guidance and exemplary leadership, the Little League program assists youth in developing the qualities of citizenship, discipline, teamwork and physical well-being," according to Little League International. "By espousing the virtues of character, courage and loyalty, the Little League Baseball® and Softball program is designed to develop superior citizens rather than stellar athletes.”

Nah-just kidding. Coaches only cared about one thing, winning games. Kids like me got to play once in a while, and only when the games mattered least, like after there was no chance of the Hawks making it to the playoffs.

One day I asked coach if he would put me in some games, now that we were out of contention. He laughed and said “Sure, you can play now Silva”. These guys always used our last names. Maybe it was some military thing. I don’t know.

Anyway, me being able to “play now” actually meant that I could be the third base coach, you know, the person standing next to the base, either stopping or waving through the base runner. When you run the bases it’s difficult to tell where the ball is, and so you need someone to indicate to you whether to stop at third or keep running to home plate.

I was thrilled to be a third base coach, you know, helping the team. I didn’t realize that they only gave me the job to keep me out of the way. Also, base runners kind of ignored my signals, doing instead what they wanted. Everyone knew I was just there for show, an affirmative action token. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be part of the team in whatever capacity. I coached third base with gusto, waving my arms furiously in different signals to the base runners. Everything went fine until that game.

It was later in the season-1956. The game was actually close-the Hawks were only 1 run behind in the last inning. Tommy Miller stood on second base, Eddie Sharkey on first. At the plate batted Paul Townsend, whom I thought of as Rooty Kazooty, after a cartoon character of the era who wore his baseball cap sideways.

There he is.

Anyway, on the 2-2 pitch, Rooty..er Paul hit the ball into far right field, and the runners started rounding the bases for home. Tommy came around third and by the time he got to home Eddie was in full gallop. His reaching home would win the game.

I stood there wildly waving my left arm in great windmills urging Eddie to run. As I waved, I happened to look down..and noticed that Eddie had not touched third base as he ran, but just ran past it. You can’t do that in baseball-you need to touch each base. That was the rule.

So, noticing the grave error, I started calling to the umpire, shouting “He missed the base, he missed the base”. Suddenly coach came barreling off the bench toward me, red-faced and screaming through bared teeth “Shut up, shut up!”. He got to me and hissed “You don’t tell the umpire when your guy breaks a rule-that’s the ump’s job!. I sputtered “but Eddie missed the base!” “I saw him miss the base!” Coach said that if the umpire doesn’t see the error, then you can get away with it, and that’s OK.

I learned a valuable lesson that Summer day. By the way, I never played Little League baseball again. The lesson is that lying, in this case lying by omission, isn’t a sin unless you get caught. Extend that sentiment to other areas. ___ isn’t a ___ unless you get caught. Let’s try it;

Speeding down the road isn’t a traffic violation unless you get caught-not so bad.

Shop lifting isn’t a petty crime unless the store owner calls your mom-a little more serious.

Rape isn’t a heinous crime unless your victim can convince the cops to act-Very serious.

It seems as though any behavior is tacitly allowed, as long as you are not found out.

These days I like to ask myself what is the guiding principle behind the decisions I face and make. I ask that of others too. I do know, though, that “because we wanna win the game” is not a principle at all, but just an excuse.