"Baseball Dad" by Alan Swyer

During my time producing a TV series years ago, I became far too familiar with a term I'd previously heard used only in passing:  stage mothers.  These were moms – and sometimes dads – who not only lived vicariously through their acting offspring, but worse, used them as a primary means of financial support.

It was only after my first-born son fell in love with baseball that I learned there was a correlative of sorts:  baseball dads.  What they share with stage mothers and fathers is the vicarious thrill and the excessive focus, but with no immediate monetary payoff.  Instead the goal is aspirational:  that their future star will become a future Clayton Kershaw, Aaron Judge, or Shohei Ohtani, earning millions en route to the Hall of Fame.  These fathers – and occasionally mothers – spend countless hours not merely playing catch or pitching batting practice, but also scraping together the bucks for instructors, nutritionists, and gear.  In some cases that goes so far as to underwrite the costs of travel teams designed to showcase their kids as shortstop, centerfielder, or pitcher.

Though I played high school baseball and attended an occasional game – the Yankees before I left the East Coast, the Dodgers when I came to LA – I'd assumed my kinship to the sport was largely ancient history.

That began to change when Jonas, still in preschool, was recruited by the older kids to play wiffle ball and catch on our quiet street in the Hollywood Hills.  The love affair was cemented when my wife and I took him to his first Dodger game, then enriched even more when, in full Dodger gear, he won a Best Halloween Costume award at the local rec center.

As he was about to start kindergarten, in search of a neighborhood with flat streets we moved to Santa Monica.  No surprise that when baseball season neared, I tried to sign Jonas up for t-ball.  To my dismay, I was told that because he was not yet 6, he'd have to wait a year.  “But he can hit pitching,” I stated, only to have the Little League president say, “I doubt that.”

Undaunted, I found a park league eager to accept him.  There he exulted first in t-ball, then in what's known as 5-Pitch, where each team's coach does the pitching.

When that season ended, Jonas wanted to move up to something more competitive:  real baseball.  Fortuitously, a friend told me about Fall Ball in the San Fernando Valley.  Though neighbors were stunned that I would make the trek “over the hill” early on Saturday mornings, the experience was great.  Above and beyond being able to hit live pitching – and take to the mound himself – he was thrilled to be among kids who prized baseball over video games and ski trips.  The irony is that after baseball, Jonas would change into his soccer uniform as we sped back to Santa Monica, then score a couple of goals while other kids complained about being hot, thirsty, or tired.

Despite the joy from playing, there was something that made him self-conscious:  he was short for his age.  Recognizing his distress, I asked him which kid had the kind of height he'd like to have.  When he pointed toward a chubby kid named Joseph, I made him a promise.  “In a few years, you'll be able to use the top of his head as an armrest.”  That became a running joke between us until one day Jonas finally asked how and why I could say that.  Gesturing toward Joseph, who was standing nearby with his parents, I asked, “What do you notice about the dad?”

“He's tiny.”

“And the mom?”

“Tinier.”

“And what do you notice about Joseph?”

“Tell me.”

“He's got the beginning of a mustache, which means he's not going to grow much more.  Understand now?”

Jonas nodded, still wishing he were taller.

There are turning points in everyone's life.  For Jonas, an important one was going to the UCLA baseball camp.  Clearly he made an impression on the head coach, who invited him to be a guest bat boy for a game the following Spring.  What started as a one-time opportunity soon led to additional invitations, then an offer to do the job whenever there was no conflict with school or his own baseball schedule.

Since we had no family on the west coast, in addition to providing exposure to baseball at a high level, it also meant the players became surrogate older cousins.  As a result, during school vacations, we would use the UCLA schedule as an excuse to travel to the Bay Area to see the team play against Stanford or Berkeley.

Being the bat boy also allowed Jonas to make use of his other great love:  art.  Hesitantly at first, then with increasing zeal, he started drawing his choice as player of the game whenever UCLA won, with the results hanging on the clubhouse wall.

Another turning point came when Manny Adams, the switch-hitting second baseman – and nephew of the head coach – approached me one day after a game.  “How would you feel,” he asked, “if I teach Jonas how to switch-hit?” 

 “If he's up for it,” I replied, “fine with me.”

That turned out to be a benefit long before having to deal with curveballs or sliders.  Scheduled to play “up” on a tournament team with kids a year or two older, Jonas thought his chance was over when he broke his left arm playing basketball.  Stuck in a cast, he was stunned when his coach showed up unexpectedly at our house.  “If I can get a waiver,” he asked, “will you pitch and hit?”  Jonas, not surprisingly, turned to me.  

“If the doctor says it's okay,” I stated, “it's fine with me.”

That was trial by fire for Jonas batting left-handed, and he acquitted himself both hitting and pitching. 

Thanks to the discovery of batting cages in Culver City before the area became gentrified, Jonas found himself among a new group of kindred spirits – kids for whom baseball was far more than a participation or seasonal sport.  It was there that he bonded with another young switch-hitter – Covelli Crisp – who was three grades ahead of him in school.

When the owner of the cages, an ex-minor-leaguer named John Slack, initiated an invitation-only eight-week program for kids moving up to varsity in high school, an exception was made for Jonas, who was still in eighth grade.

Each Sunday, John and a couple of his ballplayer pals put them through rigorous drills – fielding, hitting, bunting, running the bases, and stealing – dividing the focus between fundamentals and game situations.  Then they would finish with some baseball lore.

The youngest, and easily the shortest, of those on the field, Jonas surprised me – and perhaps himself – by holding his own among guys, including his friend Covelli, who were high school studs.

I, meanwhile, got my first serious taste of baseball dads and their chatter.  It was during those afternoons that I encountered what seemed almost like an obscure vocabulary:  scouts, showcases, Area Code games, hitting gurus, and the like.  For the most part, I kept to myself with one exception, a friendly guy named Loyce who was Covelli's dad.

On week eight, instead of training, I got a look at a whole other universe when John's proteges played a double-header against a travel team composed of high-schoolers from Westchester, Inglewood, and Compton.

Because pride was at stake, not merely for the guys who'd been training with John, but also for John himself, I hoped that Jonas would carry his weight.  He did more than that, getting a double batting lefty in game one, plus two singles from the right side in game two, as well as pitching a scoreless inning in relief.

As the teams were shaking hands in the aftermath, I watched the opposing coach put his arm around Jonas, then walk with him toward me.  Introducing himself as Anthony Anderson, he allowed Jonas to speak.

“He'd like me to join his travel team,” Jonas announced to me.

“Okay if I ask what's involved?”

“One, sometimes two, practices a week,” said Anthony. “And since we don't have enough fields to host a tournament, weekends away once in a while.”

Having attended an urban high school, I had a happy sense of deja vu seeing Jonas become one of only two white kids on a predominantly Black team.

Traveling to tournaments in towns like Fontana and Poway that had previously been only names on a map, I got an even greater sense of the hopes and dreams of the baseball dads, as well as the pressure faced by their sons.

Every game, every at-bat, every stint on the mound was tantamount to do-or-die for many of them.  On top of that was the dissatisfaction if their kid was playing second base instead of shortstop, left field instead of center, or batting 8th or 9th instead of 3rd or 4th.  Or worse, sitting on the bench.  More troubling than the grumbling about coaching decisions that might impair their sons' futures, was the sense, never fully articulated, that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if one of the anointed players sprained an ankle or developed arm trouble.

But Jonas was having fun, and that's what mattered to me.

That ended when problems with personalities and finances caused the team to implode.

Fearing that his travel days were over, Jonas got a bail-out by a call from the coach of a team he'd played against.  

“Dad,” he said after asking the coach to hold, “can I play for the Channel Island Mariners?”

Taking the phone, I thanked the coach for the offer, but mentioned that while weekend games and tournaments weren't a problem, it would be next to impossible to get Jonas to practices in Ventura County.

Happily, a solution was found.  Jonas would be on the honor system, promising to hit at the batting cage at least once a week, as well as throwing what's called a bullpen session by having me catch him at one of the local parks.

This quickly became a different kind of experience.  First, the roster was almost entirely Latino, yielding friendships that carried on through high school and beyond.  Also, it was far better organized and funded, which made for a higher level of tournaments, including periodic trips to Las Vegas.

But with the uptick came even more pressure from the baseball dads and moms.  That was true among the Mariners, but even more so among most of the teams that they faced, some with coaches who were paid significant amounts of money, which commensurately upped the expectations.

Then came an offer for Jonas to join a team in a new Spring league.  With no geographical boundaries, and better competition than what was available locally, it sounded promising.  Again Jonas turned to me, since it wasn't only permission that was necessary, but also lots of driving.  That resulted in a conversation with John Torosian, the effusive coach who would have an impact first on my son's life, then later on mine.

Entering high school in September, Jonas was asked to play with the varsity in a handful of Saturday games against non-conference opponents.  Since he was the only freshman, the head coach couldn't figure out how, instead of the juniors and seniors getting greetings and hugs from guys on other teams, it was Jonas, thanks to his time on the travel circuit.

As those practice games were drawing to an end, Jonas got a phone call while we were having breakfast one Saturday.  Midway through the call he turned to me.  “Covelli wants me to try out for a team.”

“Find out where and when,” I replied.

Only after he hung up did I learn the “where” was Compton, and the “when” was the following Saturday.

Having already agreed, I didn't say no.

Thus began a long-term relationship with Compton Baseball Academy Training – CBATS – run by Gerald Pickens, who almost single-handedly kept youth baseball alive in that tough part of Los Angeles County.  In addition to being the only white kid on the team, Pickens, better known as G, later informed me that Jonas was the first white friend for most of the team members.  For them it was a new phenomenon culturally, but not as much as it was for Jonas, who got to experience the racism – sometimes couched, other times explicit – that the team faced when traveling to places where players like Unique Johnson, Marquis Jackson, Avante Rose, and even Covelli were presumed to be gangbangers.

Travel they did, using grant money to play in a big tournament in Arizona, then an even more important one in Alaska.  To my son's surprise, I chose not to accompany the team to faraway places.  Because many of the kids were fatherless or had dads who couldn't afford to make such trips, I didn't want the only white kid to be different.  Nor did I want anyone to feel that Jonas was getting special treatment because of my presence.  Most importantly, I didn't want Jonas to have divided loyalties.  Without me, he could more easily be one of the guys.

The period of calm we anticipated during the Christmas break vanished when Jonas got an emergency call from Covelli.  He was set to play in a tournament in San Diego for a team called Long Beach Breakers who, due to injuries and illness, found themselves short of manpower.

On a roster filled with high school seniors, including two who went on to long careers in Major League baseball – Chase Utley plus Covelli, soon to be known as Coco Crisp – Jonas handled second base as the Breakers played six games in seven days against other future big leaguers including Horacio Ramirez (Braves) and Ryan Garko (Cleveland).

At last came Jonas's first official high school season, from which three experiences stand out.  The first, as he was alone in the locker room, changing for practice, came when three Latino gang members burst in and started pushing him around until a metal bat was heard banging against a locker.  Turning, they saw an angry third baseman, Junior Barba, glaring menacingly.  “What the fuck you doing?” Junior demanded.

“Messin' with the white motherfucker.”

“Ain't no white motherfucker!” snarled Junior, who a few years later would be convicted of  murder.  “That's my teammate.  Mess with him, you mess with me!”

The second happened during a rare televised game against El Segundo, then ranked #1 in the country.  With Santa Monica leading by a run, Jonas was moved from second base to the pitcher's mound to seal the victory.  He got the save, with the last out coming when he struck out a 1st team All-American, Alberto Concepcion, who would be drafted a month later by the San Diego Padres.

The third came when Dan Kramer, a pitcher from Jonas's bat boy days at UCLA, arrived at a game against Torrance just in time to see Jonas hit his first high school home run.  That resulted in an invitation to be part of a select team Dan was assembling, all of whom went on to play college and/or pro ball, including Skip Schumaker, now the manager of the Texas Rangers.

By the time his sophomore year was underway, two things had changed.  Thanks to travel ball, plus a growth spurt that meant he was no longer the shortest guy on the team, Jonas started receiving newfound attention.  First came profiles in both the LA Times Westside Section and the Santa Monica Evening Outlook.  Next, inquiries from college coaches.  Best of all was an invitation from Astros scout Doug Deutsch to play on his Fall Scout Team, on which he was assisted by a Twins scout named Bill Mele.  That meant 18 innings of high level wood bat baseball each Saturday by prospects who were occasionally joined by pros wanting an off-season workout.

An even more unexpected surprise came my way thanks to Jonas' old coach John Torosian.  Away from youth baseball, he was a real estate investor transitioning into producing indie films.  His request was for me to look at a script he called a psychological thriller, which put me in an awkward spot since I didn't want to sully a relationship.  

The moment I finished reading, the phone rang.  “So?” John asked.

“Let me put it mildly,” I answered.  “It's neither psychological nor thrilling.”

I heard John gulp.  “Since we've got a start date, any way to save it?”

“First,” I offered, “make it about the dad whose daughter was killed years ago, not the killer.”

“Okay.  And?”

“Instead of a local cop, make the investigator a female FBI officer who shows up in town.”

“Because?”

“You've got a fish-out-of-water dynamic, plus a love interest.”

“When can you start a rewrite?”

Though I explained that I was midway through a largely autobiographical screenplay that I didn't want to abandon, John persisted.  “What'll it take to persuade you?”

“I'll coin a phrase.  Let me direct.”

“Why you?”

“I'm presuming this is low budget.  If you get somebody who does this for a living, midway through shooting, he'll be worrying about his next payday.”

“But you –?”

“Will want it as a calling card.”

To my dismay, I went from projects where I was only the writer, merely the writer, and sometimes no longer the writer to being the director.  

Nor would this be the only time my involvement with youth baseball led to an unexpected change in my career.

Fortunately, at a time when I was too busy rewriting, casting, and scouting locations for chauffeuring duties, Jonas was now old enough to drive.  Searching for a used car that would be fun as well as useful, we found a rebuilt '68 Camaro that tickled his fancy.

Then came filming, which meant that I was busier than ever.The word I got from a couple of dads made it sound like while Doug Deutsch and Bill Mele were great, the intensity among many of the parents was at a level I hadn't yet witnessed.  Some of them jockeyed Doug and the opposing coaches, others tried to hobnob with scouts who showed up, and many handed out stat sheets.

But Jonas, who played shortstop except for pitching an inning each weekend, seemed happy with the level of play and the camaraderie, which was all I cared about. 

When scout ball ended, Jonas rejoined the Channel Island Mariners for a holiday tournament, then took a breather before the high school season.

Unbeknownst to his mom and me, more and more of his time was devoted to art, but of a different sort. Surreptitiously, he'd moved into the world of graffiti – which we later learned meant numerous narrow escapes from the law.  Years later, his mother still finds herself wondering if one day the FBI will knock on our door.

One evening when we were out for tacos, Jonas turned to me with a smile.  “Know what?  You were right,” he stated.

“About?”

“Remember the kid I wished I was as big as?”

He pointed at Joseph, from soccer years before, who was entering the restaurant with his parents.

“Yeah?” I replied.

“I probably could use the top of his head as an armrest.”

I did my best to schedule post-production on the thriller so that I could attend as many of  Jonas' high school games as possible.

While the stands often had parents chirping about their sons' lack of playing time, I quietly wished for the opposite.  Expected to go the distance on the mound on Tuesdays, then play shortstop on Thursdays and Saturdays, part of me wished that Jonas could occasionally save his arm by being the designated hitter.

But since he was the guy, that wasn't meant to be.

Because he was roped in by his English teacher into working on the school paper, the passive voice was used more often than not in his accounts of the ball games.  Not allowed to mention his own name, articles tended to report that “A one-hitter was pitched,” or “A home run was hit,” without mentioning by whom.

That was more than compensated for by the presence of scouts and college recruiters at many of his games, both home and away.

But a game at Torrance High left me troubled.  With Santa Monica leading 2-0, their defense fell apart in what should have been the 7th and final inning.  A routine ground ball to the second baseman was booted.  Next the kind of fly ball known as a “can of corn” was misplayed by the centerfielder.  Then a passed ball by the catcher allowed both runners to advance.  Followed by the sort of dribbler called a “swinging bunt” that allowed the lead runner to score, and the other to reach third.  Finally, a sacrifice fly, and the game was tied.

I cringed as I saw the coach approach Jonas, clearly asking if he could keep pitching.  Since he considered himself a gamer, Jonas took the mound in the 8th inning, then the 9th, and again in the 10th after Santa Monica took the lead.

That pitchers are only allowed to throw a maximum of ten innings per week does not mean it's wise or healthy to do so in one game, which ups the pitch count significantly.

Though I didn't know it then, Jonas would ultimately have to deal with the consequences.

The summer before senior year proved to be a whirlwind.  In addition to playing in a Connie Mack league where he was the only member of a team called the Thunder who hadn't played college ball, Jonas had two invitational wood bat showcases looming.

First came the Area Code Games, in which every team was sponsored by a Major League team, with Jonas playing for the home town Dodgers, coached by a scout named Artie Harris.

Compared to what I'd witnessed before, this was baseball dads on steroids.  With the stands packed with scouts and their superiors – area supervisors, cross-checkers, even members of front offices – plus college coaches galore, and numerous agents, everything was of a different order of magnitude.

Dads – and moms – buzzed around, handing out stat sheets, cozying up to everyone of importance they could find, and praying for a great performance from their would-be star.

On the Dodgers, Jonas had a rare distinction – the only one who got to play a position, hit, and pitch.

To his surprise, he was also approached by younger kids wanting his autograph.

Whereas the Area Code games were held at a college ballpark – the home of Cal State Long Beach – Team One upped the ante even higher.  Held at the Miami Marlins stadium, it carried the notion of showcase – and the baseball dad syndrome – to heights I never dreamed possible. 

Hoping to adjust to the three-hour time change and the humidity, Jonas and I flew in a couple of days early, spending time at the beach, then at a Marlins game.

Also, so as not to be completely overwhelmed by the circus-like atmosphere, we stayed at a hotel far enough to have an escape valve.

That proved to be a wise move, enabling us to catch our breath at night.

Fall meant more scout ball for the Astros, followed by another holiday tournament. By the time spring practice for the high school season began, the kid who'd been self-conscious about his height stood 6'3”, making him the tallest player on the team.

The season flew by in record time.  But despite the highlights, which included Jonas pitching a no-hitter in a Spring tournament where he was named MVP, I was concerned.  In games when he was pitching, I often saw him surreptitiously rotating his shoulder, which seemed to be tightening up.  But when asked, Jonas denied any problem.

That was especially not broached with scouts or with college coaches.

As his high school career was coming to an end, there were two key questions.  First, was Jonas a switch-hitter who could pitch, or a pitcher who could switch-hit for power?  Second, college or pro ball?

Years as the UCLA bat boy, where Jonas experienced all the fun both on and off the field – including two trips to Hawaii – made college life hard to pass up.  That was reinforced on his recruiting trips.  In contrast was what he heard from friends who spent time in the lower rungs of the minor leagues, which sounded punishing:  long bus trips, a dog-eat-dog environment, and rudimentary living situations.

College became his choice.

With Jonas headed to the East Coast, I assumed I was due for a period of baseball withdrawal.  That was soon compounded by a Hollywood strike that brought scripted production to a halt.

As luck would have it, a producer I knew asked if I had something that could get us into production legally.  “How about a documentary?” I responded.

“About?”

Suddenly an idea popped into my head.  “The Latinization of baseball,” I blurted.  “On the field and in the stands.”

“How much?” he asked.

“How much you got?” I joked, figuring the cost would depend upon the size of the crew, plus the amount of travel.

It was only because of scouts I'd gotten to know thanks to Jonas that I was able to enter the largely hermetically sealed world of baseball.  Artie Harris opened the door not merely with key Dodgers execs and players, but also to their pioneering academy in the Dominican Republic.  Doug Deutsch paved the way with the Astros, both in Houston and at their academy in Venezuela.  Bill Mele facilitated my welcome by the Twins.  From there the opportunities grew exponentially.

Together with a cinematographer and sound man, off I went to Cuba, the Dominican, Venezuela, and Puerto Rico, then Spring Training in Arizona, which I assumed would be the end of my travels. That changed when Orlando Cepeda, whom I interviewed thanks to a scout for the Giants, insisted I come to Cooperstown.  He and Juan Marichal were my wranglers for people like Sparky Anderson, Gaylord Perry, and Tony Perez, who were in town for the Hall of Fame inductions.

By the time I got to see Jonas play college baseball, he had reinvented himself as a sidearmer.  Though he claimed that changing his delivery made him more effective, I sensed that it owed to the arm trouble I'd feared during his senior year of high school.

Sadly, my suspicions proved to be true.  Though Jonas had success both pitching and hitting, inevitably something snapped. 

After surgery to repair his torn labrum and rotator cuff, Jonas went through painful rehabilitation, with scouts calling every so often to check on his progress.

Then came the slow process of regaining arm strength, followed by a workout in front of several scouts.

Despite throwing well that day, Jonas realized that his future would not be in baseball due to the pain that ensued.

While painful for me to see his dream end, it was infinitely tougher for Jonas.  Fortunately, baseball was not his only love.

Taking a job as a bartender while trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his life, he spent time non-working hours painting canvases, which led one of his paintings being selected for a group art show.

When the show ended, the gallery owner returned the painting to Jonas at the bar where he was working.  There, it was spotted by a regular who was intrigued.

“Want to try doing a mural?” he asked upon learning that Jonas was the artist. 

That's how Jonas painted a wall at the Floyd's Barber Shop in West Los Angeles, which turned into commissions at Floyd's around California and as far away as Denver and Lexington, Kentucky.

To mark the passing of SportsCenter's Stuart Scott, Jonas painted a tribute near the Los Angeles Airport, which quickly went viral, leading it to be seen at the ESPY's that year.

That led to his iconic “Touch Of Venice” on the street where Orson Welles filmed the astonishing opening sequence of “Touch Of Evil.”

Best of all, art led Jonas back into the world of sports.  He was the muralist commissioned by the Dodgers to commemorate the 75th anniversary of Jackie Robinson's Major League debut, and is now the go-to guy for the Dodgers, Lakers, Kings, Chargers, and the LAFC, as well as the Tiger Woods-Genesis Golf Tournament.

As a baseball dad who now focuses on documentaries, I couldn't be happier.

Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel 'The Beard' was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.  His newest film is "When Houston Had The Blues."