Okay, gentle readers, I guess I better give a little disclaimer before we start – I'm a little ticked off this issue. After all, I'm a sports journalist/columnist and when I write something for a past issue and it gets published here, my overpowering ego assumes that everyone on the planet has not only read it, but has adhered to the advice. After all, how could they not? I'm an athlete and a writer! I know all and tell all; I'm the Fastpitch girl behind the curtain pulling the levers. Okay, now it's time to click my ruby Ringor spikes together three times and wake-up from Tiff's Dream World and rejoin reality – where, heedless of my diatribe against bad coaches in one of my first columns here (“Where Have All the Coaches Gone?”), they apparently have not only survived, but have bred and flourished here in beautiful Spokane, Washington.

As most of you know, I'm fortunate enough to give lessons to some of the most talented Fastpitch girls here in Spokane, so it's inevitable that I also come in contact with the occasional High School or Travel Ball coach when I go to watch a game and see what my fledgling Bustos/Titcume/Porter/Mendozas are up to in a real-life situation When that happens, I'm sorry to say the meeting is rarely a pleasant experience, but it is often “exciting.” The very best coaches come to me, introduce themselves between innings or at the end of the game, and say something like “You're working with Susie Slapper, aren't you? She has really improved – thank you! I did want to ask you, though, if you could spend a little time with her working on fill in the blank here.” That's really cool. It speaks of mutual respect as professionals, and a knowledge of what that coach's players are actually doing. I couldn't ask for more, and likely, neither could Susie S. Now, as Shakespeare would say, “here's the rub”: That has happened to me exactly twice in the last two years. Twice. As in only two times. One more than one. Holy cats...

So, what are the other “exciting” experiences like? Obviously less than stellar, or I wouldn't be ticked off this issue and beating the keys on my laptop through the other side of the keyboard. One coach, who I actually admire for his dedication to giving players extra work, solid practices, and I think is pretty good with his players on the field (other than grabbing their helmets and putting his face up in theirs every time he talks to them ) wants his girls to hit with a mostly linear approach. I teach purely rotational hitting, so whenever we have to interface regarding one of his players who is also my student, we get along together like Montagues and Capulets (read your Romeo and Juliet). THIS, I can understand, and can still respect him as a coach even if I think he's not teaching the right approach. What I can't understand is a “coach” like I recently met (note the quotation marks). This is the same kind of coach I wrote about a few years ago...a coach that can end careers and kill a player's love for the game. This, I cannot abide. I'll keep the gender neutral to protect the guilty and perhaps reach a wider audience who might say, “Oh no....that's me. Maybe I should re-think my approach.” Well – hope springs eternal, I suppose.

Anyway, I'd been hearing about this “coach” for some time from a few parents, but thought to myself, this guy/gal can't be THAT bad. I heard the coach had been yelling negatively all the time, giving little or no encouragement to the players, had put his/her two daughters in key positions for which they were unqualified (thus killing team moral), and was being an all-around dork/dorkette. I'd heard this kind of story before, but always like to reserve final judgment until I meet the object of scorn. As it turns out, the parents had been charitable. As in nice. As in actually painting a rosier picture than what I saw.

I was out before team practice, giving a girl from her/his team some extra work, when this coach showed up on a lawn tractor, ready to drag the field. The coach stared for about 3 or 4 minutes from the tractor, then growled out, “You need to move.” Not, “Hey, Abbey (name changed). Great to see you getting some work in. How's it going?” Not, “Hi, I'm Coach _________, you must be Tiffany. I heard Abbey was working with you. I gotta drag the field – would you all mind moving over one field?” Nope.....Just “You need to move.” Okay...no problem – maybe “coach” is having a bad day. But I thought I'd take the bull by the horns and go up to the Lawn Tractor Monarch (LTM) and introduce myself. Here's how it went:
Me: (extending hand for a shake) Hi I'm Tiffany Brooks. Are you Abbey's coach?
LTM: Yep. (hands still in pockets)
Me: Ummm... (hand still out) What's your name?
LTM: (finally shakes hand quickly, like you would someone with communicable skin disease). Sheila/Sam [choose your own name here].
Me: Nice to meet you. I'm out here working with Abbey. I thought I'd check in with you and see if there's anything I could work with her on that might help you or the team out?
LTM: Not really.
Me: She's a good ballplayer.
LTM: She's okay. I need to drag the field.

And that was that. You'd think I had met this person before and had foreclosed on their house or tried to bilk them out of millions or something. Obviously I had met one of the Great Communicators. Nevertheless, I was willing to give this coach the benefit of the doubt until...an hour later, after we were finished, and I was loading my gear in my Jeep, I could hear the coach yelling from across the field at the players,and there was nary a good word in it all. That was all I needed to hear. I felt for the players and for my students who played on the team.

I said it before, and I'll say it again – and this time, please play to my ego and take my advice – be a discerning consumer. Coaches are a commodity and you have a choice – less so if they coach high school, more so if they are travel ball coaches. If you see this kind of treatment, do not walk...RUN away from this negative experience. If it's High School, complain. As in – tell them how little you think of the coach. Don't be the lone voice in the wilderness. Don't be a gang of vigilantes or sharks in a feeding frenzy either, but using reasoning and facts, bring other parents and list the deficiencies you want resolved. This does not include “My daughter, Susie Slapper, is better than Hannah deHomer and should be playing left field instead of left out.” No. Tell the athletic director, the principal, and if necessary, the school board, what you saw and that the coach is toxic and killing the kids' love of the game. Be proactive. Heed my advice or I'll get ticked off in another column in two or three years, and you'll have to read all this over again.

In keeping with the Shakespeare motif and the tragedy of it all, I'll close with a slight alteration of the final line of Hamlet – “Adieu, adieu, Sweet Princes and Princesses.”

Until next time, please don't let anyone take away your or your kids' passion for the game. Be hard if you have to, cuz in this game, there Ain't Nothin' Soft about it.

Tiffany Brooks lives in Spokane, Washington. She loves to hear your comments or ideas for future columns. She can be reached at gutallstop@hotmail.com.