No Doormat for Me, Thanks
I was behind the backstop that day, earning a few bucks as the scorekeeper. I’d been doing it a couple of years, even though I wasn’t much older than the boys on the field. I wished I could have been out on the field instead of behind the backstop, but the recent court ruling requiring Little League to allow girls had come too late for me. So, I kept score; it paid better than babysitting, and was easier work. Usually.
One of the all-teams playing was from Hometown American, which had produced a state champion just a couple of years before. They were expected to handily win this district tournament, but weren’t having an easy time of it against the boys from the neighboring town. Even though I had scored for a different league, and had no connection to Hometown American, I had heard of the Hometown American’s coach’s reputation. He was a quick-tempered man, regularly giving the umpires a hard time. The closeness of the game wasn’t improving his mood, either.
The trouble began after an inning ended. Hometown American had been batting, and after the third out, I totaled up the inning summary and announced it over the PA system: “Hometown American scored 2 runs on 3 hits and no errors. After 3 innings, the score stands Hometown American 4, NeighborTown 3.”
The coach’s head snapped up at my announcement. “We scored 3 runs!” he shouted as he came down the line to the backstop. Soon, he was in my face; we were separated only by the chain-link of the backstop. He was an adult, a professor at the local university; I was a young teenaged girl. But I was never an easily intimidated teenaged girl.
I walked him through my scoresheet for the inning, showing him where all the runners had gone. He had been attempting to keep score himself, but he was also coaching third base. The thing about scoring a baseball game is, it requires a surprising amount of attention. If you try to do anything else while you score, it’s very easy to miss something. He had missed an out; a baserunner that had been put out on the basepaths, his scoresheet had scoring a run. It should have been obvious; after all, it takes three outs to end an inning, and he only showed two. If he was right, the inning would still be going on.
But he was in no mood to see the obvious, and besides, I probably seemed a better target than the umpire, who was another adult and a veteran ump. The coach kept yelling that I had missed a run, but I stood my ground. I didn’t yell back at him, but I knew I was right, and I wasn’t going to give them a run they didn’t score. The umpire had come over, and heard my explanation, and he backed me up. He was trying to calm the coach down; he kept saying, “She’s right, Jim.” Eventually, the coach had no choice but to back down and continue the game. He didn’t file a protest, because he knew there was no point; I had the official scoresheet, and it balanced; the number of hits plus runs plus outs for the inning equaled the number of batters who came up that inning. Hometown American did go on and win the game. The coach never acknowledged his error, but I still felt pretty good for having stood up to him.
That is, until later that evening. Mom had been at the field and had seen the whole thing. She had not been all that happy at seeing her teenaged daughter going toe-to-toe with a grown man. She had to admit that I was right, but didn’t think it was very ladylike for me to be arguing with the coach. I guess she thought I should have let the umpire handle it. I suspect that had it been my brother out there standing up to the coach, she would have been proud of him, but not so her daughter.
I never have been able to figure out how to balance my own self-respect with her idea of proper lady-like behavior. Looking back, I’m still proud for standing up for what I knew was right, but still disappointed that my mother wasn’t proud of me.
I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. -Rebecca West
One of the all-teams playing was from Hometown American, which had produced a state champion just a couple of years before. They were expected to handily win this district tournament, but weren’t having an easy time of it against the boys from the neighboring town. Even though I had scored for a different league, and had no connection to Hometown American, I had heard of the Hometown American’s coach’s reputation. He was a quick-tempered man, regularly giving the umpires a hard time. The closeness of the game wasn’t improving his mood, either.
The trouble began after an inning ended. Hometown American had been batting, and after the third out, I totaled up the inning summary and announced it over the PA system: “Hometown American scored 2 runs on 3 hits and no errors. After 3 innings, the score stands Hometown American 4, NeighborTown 3.”
The coach’s head snapped up at my announcement. “We scored 3 runs!” he shouted as he came down the line to the backstop. Soon, he was in my face; we were separated only by the chain-link of the backstop. He was an adult, a professor at the local university; I was a young teenaged girl. But I was never an easily intimidated teenaged girl.
I walked him through my scoresheet for the inning, showing him where all the runners had gone. He had been attempting to keep score himself, but he was also coaching third base. The thing about scoring a baseball game is, it requires a surprising amount of attention. If you try to do anything else while you score, it’s very easy to miss something. He had missed an out; a baserunner that had been put out on the basepaths, his scoresheet had scoring a run. It should have been obvious; after all, it takes three outs to end an inning, and he only showed two. If he was right, the inning would still be going on.
But he was in no mood to see the obvious, and besides, I probably seemed a better target than the umpire, who was another adult and a veteran ump. The coach kept yelling that I had missed a run, but I stood my ground. I didn’t yell back at him, but I knew I was right, and I wasn’t going to give them a run they didn’t score. The umpire had come over, and heard my explanation, and he backed me up. He was trying to calm the coach down; he kept saying, “She’s right, Jim.” Eventually, the coach had no choice but to back down and continue the game. He didn’t file a protest, because he knew there was no point; I had the official scoresheet, and it balanced; the number of hits plus runs plus outs for the inning equaled the number of batters who came up that inning. Hometown American did go on and win the game. The coach never acknowledged his error, but I still felt pretty good for having stood up to him.
That is, until later that evening. Mom had been at the field and had seen the whole thing. She had not been all that happy at seeing her teenaged daughter going toe-to-toe with a grown man. She had to admit that I was right, but didn’t think it was very ladylike for me to be arguing with the coach. I guess she thought I should have let the umpire handle it. I suspect that had it been my brother out there standing up to the coach, she would have been proud of him, but not so her daughter.
I never have been able to figure out how to balance my own self-respect with her idea of proper lady-like behavior. Looking back, I’m still proud for standing up for what I knew was right, but still disappointed that my mother wasn’t proud of me.
I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. -Rebecca West
posted by WritingMom at 5:28 PM
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