An Excerpt from the book Making it Home: Life Lessons from a Season of Little League, by Teresa Strasser, an Emmy-winning writer (Comedy Central), Emmy- nominated television host (TLC), and Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year. She’s been on The View, Good Morning America, and co-host to the Adam Carolla podcast. Her book, Making it Home, is about her journey through loss and healing through a season of Little League Baseball. It is available wherever books are sold.

Team Dark Teal drafted a stud named Otis, who would’ve been the best pitcher in the league, except his parents wouldn’t let him pitch in the league.

He played club baseball, traveling to tournaments all over Arizona, California, and Nevada with an elite band of boy baseball wonders. His parents let all the coaches know ahead of time that they could draft Otis, but he wouldn’t be pitching in Little League because he was already throwing a maximum number of pitches in tournament games every other weekend. So, even though Team Dark Teal has the stud of all studs, they aren’t very good.

The Purple Pinstripes take an early lead against Team Dark Teal but fritter it away with a few errors and some sloppy play.

It’s now our team’s last chance to hit, the bottom of the sixth. We need one run for a tie, two to win.
A new pitcher is warming up.
Otis.
Whispers go through the crowd.

I thought he wasn’t playing. Nobody can hit that kid. I heard his club is the best in the state. Well, that club team isn’t playing this weekend for some reason, tournament got canceled or something, so his parents are letting him pitch one inning this game. One inning. And that inning is now.

When Otis’s first warm-up pitch hits the catcher’s glove, it’s the crispest thwack we have heard at Ingleside, sending shivers through our lineup. Otis’s next practice throw is too hot for the catcher. It hits him in the chest plate, knocking him back several feet. Warmups stop while Team Dark Teal’s coach checks on the scrawny catcher, and all the players take a knee until he bravely crouches back down into position, dusting off the back of his pants. The crowd applauds. There is no batter in the box yet, but Otis is pumping strikes, an assassin in Dark Teal with fluffy hair and braces.

First up to the plate, Isaiah. He watches three pitches go by him, steps out and away every time. Strikes out looking. One out. No way he wants to risk getting hit by one of these withering Little League heaters.

“This pitching is next-level,” says Dad, awestruck. We are back to the top of our lineup now. Leo actually gets his bat on the ball. It’s a weak tapper, but he makes it to first base due to an infeld error. “The only good news is that with Otis pitching, Otis can’t also be at shortstop. We have only one out,” says Dad. “The tying run is on first.”

Nate comes up. He swings at and misses two fastballs. He simply doesn’t have the bat speed to catch up to Otis’s velocity. “You’re late on it,” says Coach Daniel. “Load early.” Third pitch, Nate makes contact. The ball sails out low, hugging the third-base line, and lands barely inside the chalk. The ump signals Fair Ball, waving his arm toward the field of play. It’s a double. Nate is on second. Leo is on third. (I didn’t know it at the time, but Otis was working on his changeup. I didn’t even know what a changeup was back then, how it looks like a fastball but comes in slower, and I wouldn’t have known one if I saw one. Otis’s club team had him working on it, treating this Little League game as a live bullpen session. The slow speed is the only reason Nate was able to get his bat on the ball. Daniel explained all of this later, but at the time I filed it under “BASEBALL MIRACLE.”)

Gavin comes up next. He gets a hit on another changeup, for the walk-off.

“I love that kid,” says my dad magnanimously as all the players clear the dugout and run out to pounce on Gavin, who smiles shyly.

“Let’s go, KID! You walked it off!” screams Isaiah, slapping him on the back.

It’s our good luck that Otis chose this night to practice his changeup in the bottom of the sixth. And there is more good luck in the next game, because with Leo pitching we get a huge early lead against Team Black and Navy. I can relax with a lead. And I can moderate my anxiety when Nate is playing first base, deftly catching even off-target throws, and only occasionally neglecting to play the bounce on a grounder.
Coach Daniel knows this is a good opportunity to try out some other arms. “I’m looking ahead,” he explained to me earlier. “Mathematically, we need more arms if we happen to make it through the first round of playoffs. If I can keep my aces under fifty pitches, they need only two days of rest. Otherwise, they’re burned for four days. I’m going to have to put some rookie pitchers out there, see how they do under the lights.”

This is that chance.

Zander Davis takes the hill for the Pinstripes. He’s been out in left field lately, but his arm is decent and it’s time to see how he looks now. I notice his mom, the public school art teacher, stand up, fluff her skirt nervously, sit back down, and then rise again, pacing. She dresses better than anyone at the ballpark, in chic, vintage flowered fabrics, with cool red lipstick. She steps behind the bleachers, but not too far, just far enough to place more distance between herself and this Little League crucible. Zander walks a few kids but is saved by a divine double play, God’s gift to a struggling pitcher. And the Pinstripes win 13–0. It happens so fast that there is still at least half an hour left with lights on and umps on duty. Coach Black and Navy offers Daniel a deal.

“I’d like to get my kids more reps in the field. And I want to give my pitcher a chance to throw to a few more batters. If your guys want some extra batting practice, this is good for both sides. If you’re in, the ump says it’s okay.”

Daniel swings open the metal door to the dugout and explains the situation to his players.

“We won, but we’re going to keep playing.” The boys are confused at first but then psyched. More baseball.

“I have only one rule,” he adds. “Nobody walks. Swing your bats. If you walk, I will send you back to the dugout. Swing at anything. If it’s a three-and-oh count, I don’t care if you have to throw your bat to touch the ball.”
Easton and Zander strike out. Their bats never leave their shoulders and I can see Daniel is starting to get agitated.

“NOT ONE SWING, GUYS??” he asks, incredulous.

Now Isaiah is up.

“He’s not swinging his bat. Not even now, when it doesn’t count. Not ever,” says Dad.

Coach calls time-out as Isaiah comes to the plate. “Remember what I said, Isaiah. I don’t care where the first pitch is. If it’s ten feet over your head, if it bounces in the dirt five feet in front of the plate, you are swinging at this first pitch.”

“Got it, Coach.”

Daniel takes his post near first base. First pitch, right down the middle. No swing. Second pitch, Isaiah steps into the bucket, doesn’t move his bat. Daniel takes his purple hat off decisively. “ISAIAH! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?”

“You never hear Dan raise his voice,” Dad says wonderingly.

“That’s his Philly voice,” I explain.

Isaiah looks at Daniel, looks him right in the face. “Sorry, Coach. Sorry.”

“Isaiah, you are swinging at this pitch.” For Daniel, the dharma of Isaiah is now in crisis. His self-protective refusal to swing is now baked into him. He can’t step toward the pitcher because fear has become one with his body. In the past are his failures, freezing his muscles in time and space. And in the future is the frustration of striking out looking, without taking so much as a single hack. And then there’s the fact that every kid is going to get hit by a pitch, no telling when, and it’s probably going to hurt. My husband is no Buddha, but he knows his job is to make this kid live in the present. Approach, don’t avoid. No risk it, no biscuit.

As the third pitch heads toward Isaiah, Daniel takes off running down the first-base line toward home plate, waving his hat, bellowing out the word “SWING!” The pitch flies high above the strike zone. Isaiah doesn’t swing, and now one of his hands is off the bat. The baseball is already in the catcher’s mitt, but Coach is still running hard toward Isaiah, screaming with his Philly voice, startling him so much that he has no choice but to meekly swing the bat with one arm while the other dangles limply. The ump is confused by the one- armed swing, because the ball is already tucked safely into the catcher’s mitt. After a beat, the ump calls, “Swing and a miss. Strikeout.” It doesn’t matter to Coach. Daniel squeezes Isaiah with all he’s got, embraces him so hard, the kid’s cleats come off the ground.

Daniel puts him down, bending his tall frame forward to look right into Isaiah’s gold-flecked eyes. “You went down swinging. Sort of. But good. Good job, kid.” Daniel taps the top of Isaiah’s helmet. the child looks dazed, still taken aback by his mild-mannered coach running toward him and yelling maniacally. And he’s surprised by his own body, going down at least half swinging. And then there was the unforeseen and sudden hug, momentarily levitating him, a victory hug over a strikeout.

“Thanks, Coach. You’re crazy, though, Coach,” he says, shaking his head.

Warmth is saturating my chest, like a heating pad has just been switched on inside my body.

For a few seconds under the lights, it’s like the boy and his coach have won something. It won’t be on any score sheet, but their joy is my joy, and I can feel that half swing with my whole heart.