It was the kind of spring evening that reminds you why you fell in love with this game in the first place.
The sun was setting over a neighborhood field. The scoreboard read 6-6. The bleachers were buzzing with parents and siblings. And the kids—well, the kids just wanted one more inning.
So we gave it to them.
One extra inning of Majors Division Little League, under the faint glow of the lights. No standings on the line. No trophies at stake. Just a group of 12-year-olds who genuinely wanted to keep playing baseball.
And then came the moment.
Leadoff hitter in extras slams a double into the gap. Bench erupts. He promptly steals third. Two pitches later, a ball skips past the catcher and he dashes home with the winning run. Pandemonium. Dugout emptied. High-fives everywhere.
A beautiful Little League ending?
Maybe.
But I walked off the field with my head down. Not in frustration, not even in disappointment—just with a quiet sadness. Because what I had just witnessed wasn’t baseball.
It was what youth baseball has become.
We are losing situational baseball. Not at the Major League level—although that’s another column for another day—but at its roots. In Little League. In travel ball. In the places where the next generation is supposed to be learning how to play the game the right way.
And I don’t mean play the game hard. I mean play the game smart.
Think back: A runner on second with nobody out. In your mind, you’re already calculating. Grounder to the right side. Productive out. Fly ball to center. Move him up. Maybe even a safety squeeze.
Instead, we get something else. A blur of movement. A stolen base on a 3-1 count with the catcher not even looking. Then a mad dash on a pitch in the dirt, no regard for the scoreboard or the inning or the heart rate of the pitcher.
It’s not chaos—it’s choreography. It’s what we’ve taught them.
Because in today's game, patience is punished. Discipline doesn’t trend. We’ve replaced execution with explosion.
You see it everywhere.
Runners steal third with no outs—automatically. Right fielders attempt to throw out runners at first base—routinely. Batter walks and jets to second base. Cutoff men are treated as suggestions, not necessities. And good luck asking a 10-year-old second baseman to tell you where to go with the ball if it’s hit to them with runners on the corners and one out.
Because here's the truth: They don’t know.
And why would they?
The moment the ball hits the backstop, the runner is already at third. By the time the third baseman fields it, the runner is home. We’re not giving young players a chance to read, react, or even think.
We’ve accidentally created a version of the game where instincts are stunted and baseball IQ is an afterthought.
Now, before the pitchforks come out, let's be fair. This isn’t a finger-pointing exercise. It’s not the fault of the kids—they’re playing with joy and energy. It’s not entirely the fault of the coaches—they’re working with what they’ve been given. And it's certainly not the fault of the umpires, who, bless them, are often high schoolers just trying to keep a game moving before sundown.
This is systemic.
We’ve built an environment that rewards the fastest runner, not the smartest player. A system where speed trumps savvy. Where aggression is applauded while awareness is ignored.
And somewhere along the way, we stopped teaching the why.
But here’s the good news.
We can fix this.
We can slow the game down—on purpose. We can build practice plans around game situations. We can put kids in drills where the ball is hit and they’re asked, “Where’s the play?” We can treat baseball IQ as a skill that matters as much as exit velocity or footspeed.
We can do something radical.
We can start coaching baseball again.
Not just letting the game happen. Not just encouraging chaos and calling it creativity. But actually teaching the rhythm, the options, the moments within the moment.
Let’s create in-house leagues with structure. Let’s give kids point systems in practice for making the smart play, not just the big play. Let’s teach them that sometimes not stealing is the right decision. That there’s value in the groundout to the right side. That good baserunning isn’t reckless—it’s informed.
And most of all, let’s remind them why this game is beautiful: not because of the fireworks, but because of the layers.
I’ll never forget that night. The cheers. The celebration. The joy in the eyes of the kids.
But I’ll also never forget the hollow feeling for me that followed.
Because if we let this version of baseball continue, we’re not just losing situational baseball.
We’re losing baseball.
