Don't Sidestep It: A Lesson from the C Team

Don't Sidestep It: A Lesson from the C Team

Picture this: a gangly eighth-grader with all the athletic grace of Jar Jar Binks, standing in right field—that pastoral wasteland where Little League dreams go to die.

That was me, the kid who made Revenge of the Nerds look like a sports documentary.

But sometimes the most profound lessons come from the most unlikely teachers, and mine happened to be a squat, hippie-adjacent coach with a voice like Mike Tyson after inhaling helium.

I was on the C team. Not A team glory, not even B team respectability—the C team, where they dump the wretched refuse of Little League's huddled masses. We were like the Bad News Bears without the talent. While the A team got coached by someone who apparently modeled his approach on the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket—and I'm only exaggerating a little—we got Rodney, this fireplug of a guy in his late twenties with long hair, plus a couple of equally laid-back assistants, one sporting a ponytail and granny glasses like John Lennon that would've made the A team coach reach for his clippers. They looked like they'd wandered off from a Grateful Dead concert and accidentally found themselves responsible for teaching kids how to turn two.

But here's the thing about being written off: it can liberate you.

Rodney saw something in our ragtag bunch that nobody else bothered to look for. He made eye contact when he talked to you—a radical concept in youth sports. When two players started shoving each other during practice, he didn't scream or make them run laps. He just said, "Hey guys, that's not kind. Let's not do that. That's not what we do here, man." I still hear that voice.

The transformation was subtle but real. My hand-eye coordination went from "legally blind without the benefit of actual blindness" to something approaching functional. I could hit singles, doubles, even the occasional triple. No home runs—I had about as much power as a dying flashlight—but I could connect bat to ball with increasing regularity.

More importantly, I developed something I'd never possessed: confidence.

But the lesson that stuck, the one that's been rattling around my brain for decades, came during fielding practice. "Get in front of that ball," he'd say in that distinctive voice. "Don't sidestep it. Get in front of that ball." The logic was unassailable: sidestep a grounder and miss it, the ball sails past you like your dignity fleeing the scene. Plant yourself in front of it and miss with your glove, at least your body stops it, giving you a second chance to make the play.

This advice nearly killed me once. I followed it religiously when a hard grounder came my way, and the ball took a wicked hop up my glove and caught me square in the throat. For a moment, I experienced what I imagine it feels like to be a cartoon character after an anvil drops on their head. But I learned something: sometimes doing the right thing hurts. Sometimes it knocks the wind out of you.

But you get back up.

The memory came flooding back recently while watching a college baseball team fight its way to the championship game. What struck me wasn't just their skill, but their approach—they never sidestepped. When the pressure mounted, when the stakes got higher, when everything was on the line, they planted themselves in front of whatever was coming their way. They met every challenge head-on, trusted their teammates, and refused to let fear dictate their approach.

They fell just short of the championship, but there's no shame in that. Sometimes you do everything right and still come in second. Sometimes you get in front of the ball and it hits you in the throat. The shame isn't in falling short; it's in not trying, in sidestepping when the moment demands you stand your ground.

This brings me to the uncomfortable truth that has been gnawing at me lately: We're living in times that demand we stop sidestepping. Grounders are coming at us as a society—threats to democratic norms, the erosion of truth itself, the rise of authoritarianism wrapped in flag-themed rhetoric—and too many of us are dancing out of the way, hoping someone else will make the play.

I get it. The consequences of standing your ground can be real and painful. In workplaces across America, speaking uncomfortable truths can cost you your livelihood faster than you can say "cancel culture"—and that cuts both ways, regardless of which side you're on.

The temptation to sidestep, to let someone else handle the hard catches, is overwhelming. We tell ourselves we're being strategic, picking our battles, waiting for the right moment.

But here's what Rodney understood: there are only three outs in an inning, and sometimes you're in the top of the ninth with your last at-bat. The game doesn't pause for your comfort level. The ball doesn't slow down because you're afraid of getting hurt. At some point, you either get in front of it or you let it roll past you into the gap.

I'm not advocating for reckless heroics or martyrdom. I'm talking about the everyday courage to call balls and strikes honestly, to challenge lies when we hear them, to support colleagues and neighbors when they're under attack for doing the right thing. I'm talking about remembering that democracy, like baseball, is a team sport—and sometimes the kid from the C team has to make the crucial play.

My old coach Rodney never knew he was teaching philosophy along with baseball fundamentals. He just knew that sidestepping was a habit that would cost you in the long run. The ball will find the gap behind you, the runner will take the extra base, and eventually, you'll run out of innings to make up for all those missed opportunities to stand your ground.

So here's my question, the one that keeps me up at night: how many more grounders are we going to let roll past us before we remember that sometimes getting hit is better than getting beat? Because the clock is ticking, the count is full, and the season won't last forever.

Time to stop sidestepping. Time to get in front of the ball.