The score that counts

I'm sure many of you have heard about the latest uproar in the world of pee-wee sports: in the final inning of a Little League championship game, with two outs and the tying run on third, the trailing team's best hitter was intentionally walked, bringing to the plate a kid who survived cancer.

This was not a repeat of the Shaya story you've all probably received from an e-mail forwarder. Nope, this time, the boy at the plate in the big situation strikes out, leaving the tying run at third, the big bopper at first, and the parents PISSED OFF at the tactics of the opposing coaches. (Were the winning team's parents just as pissed? Probably not, although they should have been.)

My first reaction was this: who put together this batting order? If this kid wasn't the greatest of hitters--his own dad refers to him as the weakest person, so I'm not going out of bounds here--why was he the "protection" for the clean-up hitter? That's like having the pitcher hit right behind Albert Pujols.

But my second, more serious reaction actually was a question: if that was my kid, how would I react in this situation, and how SHOULD I react? I hope to God I never have to test my own theory...

My wife and some of my friends might not believe this when they consider how passionately I follow sports, and especially how worked up I get when my favorite teams or fantasy squads fare poorly, but I'd like to think I wouldn't be too upset.

Yes, it was a total chicken-shit move. It's way too early in these kids' lives to be so tactical--we're talking about a 10-and-under league. You really need to intentionally walk a 10-year-old? And here's a memo: if you're afraid of parental scourge, the LAST thing you should be doing is coaching Little League, dummy.

But here's what I hope would keep me from taking an Easton upside the manager's melon: hey, my kid is beating cancer. Just seeing him in the on-deck circle while the catcher stuck out his arm to begin the intentional walk would be an amazing victory of another kind.

If I'm Mario Oaks, father of the cancer survivor, Romney Oaks, I know the score that matters, and it sure as hell isn't the one that tallies runs in a Little League game.

There is nothing that can be done on a ball diamond that can match the greatness that comes from surviving this disease--"you can't win 'em all" is all too applicable with cancer. Cancer didn't signal for four balls for little Romney Oaks; no, cancer brought some serious heat, and Romney stared it down and reached base safely. It's a long way from first to home in this game, but he's on...and he's looking to swipe second.

After enduring that, the fact that my kid strikes out to end a Little League championship game means he's alive, putting on that uniform, digging into the dirt around home plate, and taking his swings. I think that's all any father really wants.