hit, I forgot to pick you up, didn’t I?…Sorry about that. Anyway, I’m not coaching that fucking team anymore.”

When I was ten years old, my father, against his better judgment, volunteered to coach my Little League team. Six months later, in the spring of 1991, Sam Halpern’s coaching career came to an abrupt and angry end.

When my dad moved to Point Loma, our seaside San Diego suburb, in 1972, it was mostly a military community. He had served in the navy, and the familiar atmosphere and like-minded residents made him feel welcome. Over the years, Point Loma’s proximity to the beach made it a desirable neighborhood to the wealthy, and huge houses sprouted up all around our modest three-bedroom home. My dad was not pleased. “I refuse to become a fucking yuppie by proxy,” he announced after a young couple moved in next door, replacing one of the last of the old military officers who had once lived on our street.

Consequently, when I was growing up, my local Little League team, Tom Ham’s Lighthouse, was filled with the children of these people my dad disliked, and for the most part, they were spoiled, disrespectful kids. I knew almost right away it probably wasn’t the best idea that my dad coach this team, but he loved baseball, and he loved me, and I think in his mind he figured that was enough.

My dad’s only rule as a coach was that all the kids play the same amount of innings per game, no matter their skill level. “It’s Little League. You’re all terrible for the most part, and that’s okay. The only way you’re going to stink less is by playing,” he told us at our first team meeting.

So every game, my teammates and I rotated on and off the field, each of us playing four of the six innings. Sometimes the rotations wouldn’t work out perfectly, and if someone had to sit out three of the innings instead of two, that someone would be me. “You’re actually good, and you know it. These other kids, it’s fucking waterworks when I take them out of the game,” my dad said to console me.

“So if I cried, I could play? That’s not fair.”

“No, if you cried, I’d still bench you, and then I’d bench you more for crying about not playing an inning in a goddamned Little League game. You’re my son, and life’s a bitch.”

During his first couple months as head coach, my dad did not exactly become a fan favorite among my teammates and their parents, who found his even-playing-time rule incorrigible. At one point during a game, one of the kids’ parents started mouthing off at him from the stands, furious that his kid wasn’t playing more.

“We’re losing because of you! Why would you bench the best player?! It’s moronic!” my snot-nosed teammate’s father yelled.

“Best player? I don’t know what fucking game he’s watching,” my dad mumbled to himself.

The parent kept at it, clearly oblivious to my dad’s growing anger and frustration. When the inning was finally over, Coach Halpern burst out of the dugout and stormed into the stands.

“Everyone plays the same amount of innings, that’s my rule. This ain’t the goddamned World Series, it’s Little League. Our right-fielder picks his butt all game, and he gets that rule. Why don’t you?”

My dad’s flare-up quieted the parents for the time being, but behind the scenes, I would hear rumblings from my teammates.

At fielding practice a week or so later, a kid named Marcus tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and he said, “My dad says your dad is an asshole.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just stood there for a few moments. Finally, I responded, “No, he’s not. Your dad’s wrong.”

Then a baseball hit me on my shin, and I turned and realized it had been my turn in the ground ball line, and my dad had just hit one at me because I wasn’t paying attention.

“Pay attention, son! Don’t stand there with your thumb up your ass.”

My dad was not helping my case for him.

Each practice, the parents and the spoiled kids would get to him a little more. He wanted this experience to just be about teaching baseball, but it wasn’t. It was more of an unwelcome exercise in tolerance and self-restraint.

Finally, the friction came to a head during a practice in May. The temperature was hot that day, and the kids decided they didn’t feel like doing my dad’s conditioning drills, which he had learned during his time in the navy. After a series of foul-pole-to-foul-pole sprints, one of them staged a revolt and refused to follow his orders.

“This is dumb. Baseball isn’t about running. Any real coach would know that,” my teammate shouted, standing defiantly in front of my dad.

The instant the sound of that kid’s insubordinate voice hit our fearless leader’s ears, my dad had the same reaction Bruce Willis has at the end of The Sixth Sense when he realizes he’s been dead the whole time: complete shock and confusion, followed by deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. My dad’s efforts to remain cool were futile.

The argument spiraled out of control, ending with him screaming, “Coach your own goddamned team, then, and kiss my ass,” to a group of fourteen kids and one terrified assistant coach named Randy, who was only coaching the team because his wife had left him and he wanted something to take his mind off of his misery. Randy wasn’t the most emotionally stable human being at the moment.

“It’s all yours, Randy! Have a blast!”

My dad stormed off to his car and took off. Unfortunately, in his anger, he had forgotten that he was my ride. We were three miles away from home, and at that moment, I wasn’t about to ask anyone else’s parents for a ride—the kids were all staring at me, and Randy looked like he was about to start crying—so I decided I’d just walk home.

An hour later, when I was about two blocks away from my house, my dad drove up alongside me and rolled down his window. “Shit. I forgot to pick you up, didn’t I?” I nodded yes. “Sorry about that. Also, I’m not coaching that fucking team anymore.”

After he removed himself from the head coach position, my dad still came to all of my games and followed the team closely. He and I would have our own practices on days when the team didn’t practice.

“Randy doesn’t know shit about the game. He throws a baseball like he’s a woman playing darts.”

So two days a week, we’d practice pitching, just him and me. Then one day as we were driving to the field for one of our practices, he took a different route.

“Where are we going? The field’s the other way,” I said.

“We’re picking up Roger. He’s gonna play with us,” he said.

Roger was the weirdest kid on the team by far. He smelled horrible, like rotten fruit mixed with Old Spice. He was actually a pretty good pitcher, but he’d have mental breakdowns in the middle of innings and completely implode.

“Why are we picking up Roger?” I asked.

“I’m teaching you pitching. He’s the other pitcher on the team. Figured I’d teach you both at the same time,” he said.

We stopped in front of an apartment where Roger was waiting. And for the next couple weeks, Roger came and practiced with us. Afterward my dad would buy us both ice cream. I told no one, because I already wasn’t the most popular kid on the team, and the last thing I needed was to be associated with Roger.

At our second-to-last game of the season, my team played one of our better opponents. I had pitched the first three innings and kept the game close. Then Roger came in and pitched the fourth and fifth and shut them down, as we took the lead in the bottom of the fifth. In the sixth, as Roger walked out to the mound, one of the parents from the other team got up from his seat in the bleachers and tood behind the fence that was ten feet behind home plate. His name was Steve, and he was a burly guy with a large beer belly. He looked like someone Popeye would fight while on shore leave.

Every time Roger started to throw, Steve would try to rattle him. “He can’t throw strikes, just take the pitches! He’s going to walk all of you,” Steve yelled to his son and his teammates.

Steve shouted undercutting comments like that every single pitch to psych Roger out. And Roger kept throwing balls, each one worse than the last. Eventually, he was crying on the mound, throwing balls that were six or more feet out of the strike zone. Randy walked out to the mound and took Roger out, and when Roger sat down on the bench next to me in the dugout, he was sobbing. Randy put his kid in, and Randy’s son, also named Randy, threw just like his dad and gave up about six runs. We lost handily.

After the game, my dad approached me and said, “Wait here with Roger. We’re giving him a ride home. But I need to take care of something first.”

He walked over to the parking lot, where Steve was helping his son pack up his stuff. I waited about thirty seconds, then followed, even though he told me to stay, mostly because I didn’t want to hang out with Randy and Randy. They both always hugged everyone good-bye, instead of waving or giving high fives, and it crept me out.

As I approached them, I saw my dad and Steve talking heatedly. “It’s part of the game, Sam,” Steve said.

“Bullshit,” my dad replied.

“Watch yourself, Sam.”

“The kid’s dad’s a drunk. His family’s a goddamned mess, and you know that. And you’re sitting out there screaming at him, trying to rattle him like this is the goddamned Major League so your kid can win a Little League game? You’re a grown man, goddamn it. What in the hell is wrong with you?”

At that point, Steve mumbled a few more things, then got into his truck with his son, Kevin, and drove off.

My dad took me and Roger for ice cream before dropping Roger off. We didn’t say much on the ride home. I wasn’t exactly sure what had gone on, but I knew that my dad was angry at Steve, and I figured maybe I could make him feel better somehow.

“I don’t like Steve either, Dad. He’s fat, and so is Kevin, and they think they’re good at stuff, but they’re only good cause they’re fat and bigger than everyone else,” I huffed.

My dad was silent as he parked the car in our driveway. Then he turned to me. “Son, I didn’t understand one goddamned thing you just said. Take your cleats off before you get inside the house, I think you stepped in dog shit.”

On My Eighth-Grade Graduation Ceremony

“They’re celebrating you graduating from eighth grade? We just went to your sixth-grade graduation two goddamned years ago! Jesus Christ, why don’t they just throw a fucking party every time you properly wipe your ass?”

On Puberty

“How’s puberty treating you?…How do I know you’re going through it? Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the three hundred dick hairs you suddenly leave all over the toilet seat that clued me in.”

On Asking to Have the Candy Passed to Me During Schindler’s List

“What do you want—the candy? They’re throwing people in the fucking gas chamber, and you want a Skittles?”

On Accidentally Eating Dog Treats

“Snausages? I’ve been eating dog treats? Why the fuck would you put them on the counter where the rest of the food is? Fuck it, they’re delicious. I will not be shamed by this.”

On Trying Out for the High School Freshman Football Team

“I ain’t letting you try out, you’re too skinny…. No, I hate to break it to you, but you can’t do whatever you want, and you most certainly are not a man.”

On Bob Saget’s Demeanor While Hosting America’s Funniest Home Videos

“Remember that face. That’s the face of a man who hates himself.”

On Being Intimidated

“Nobody is that important. They eat, shit, and screw, just like you. Well, maybe not just like you. You got those stomach problems.”

On the Medicinal Effects of Bacon

“You worry too much. Eat some bacon…. What? No, I got no idea if it’ll make you feel better, I just made too much bacon.”