Big time in the little league: for managers, coaches, players, and parents alike, nothing quite can compare to a season on the youth circuit.

Pitching line for my son's Little League debut: one inning, four runs (none of them earned; the ball never left the infield), no hits, and too many errors to count. Despite his 0-1 record, he'll start our next game--and not because his father is the manager. The fact is, on this team of seven-year-olds, only three players can reach home plate and he happens to be one of them. Actually, our three hurlers also are our best fielders (and hitters) and rotated among first base, shortstop, and third base at the beginning of the season. However, this is youth league baseball. So, to start the year, coaches pitch to their own team and there is no catcher. In the second half of the campaign, the kids are to begin pitching and catching on their own. That's a lot better than last year when my boy played T-Ball for the hated--at least in this household, my doesn't-know-any-better, Derek Jeter-loving daughter excepted--Yankees (oh, the indignity) and I was relegated to the role of buttinsky parent.

We're part of the seven-team Pee Wee Nationals. I was glad we were able to be the Cardinals. Not only are they the defending National League champions, but both my sons (and mother, actually) are Redbird rooters. Moreover, it gave me a chance to add to my extensive and expensive (just ask my wife) uniform collection. Since the league-issued pants for the players were gray, and even though managers and coaches are supposed to wear t-shirts adorned with the league logo, I opted to go with St. Louis' road jersey. (I also got a Redbirds practice jersey through www.mlb.com.) But what's a game jersey without special-edition patches? On the right arm is the official 2004 World Series patch I snagged while covering the 2004 Fall Classic in Boston. On the left sleeve, sent to me by my sportswriting buddy in St. Louis (where I went to college way back when), is the Busch Stadium farewell patch, as the Cardinals are joining the parade of franchises building themselves (with taxpayer money, of course) a new ballpark.

Although the team received red hats, I just couldn't help myself and had to purchase the blue version the Cards wear on the road. Ah, but there is a third cap that St. Louis employs for Sunday home games: a red and blue beauty with an image of a bird perched on a bat replacing the standard "StL" logo. When the patents of my friend in St. Louis got wind of the fact that my boys are Cardinal fans, they promptly sent them a couple of "Sunday" caps. My oldest, of course, being a uniform maverick like his dad--he sports blue-striped socks while the rest of the team opts for red-wanted to wear his in games. Though tempted, I decided against it, explaining that the Cards wear it on Sunday and all our weekend contests are on Saturday. (Also, it's against league rules not to wear the "official" team cap.)

Sure enough, our next Saturday game was rained out and the makeup was slated for the following afternoon--Sunday. I knew what was coming and had my response all prepared. "Yes, it's a Sunday game, but look at the schedule; we're listed first; technically, we're the visitors. I'll tell you what, though: Why don't you where the cap to practices?" He agreed. No surprise there. He's a good kid and does what he's told with no back talk, which, ironically enough, is why his mother did not want me to manage this season. She warned me that the other players probably would not be as attentive; after all, they are only seven. Besides, she pointed out, patience is not one of my virtues, and yelling at other people's children--and I do yell--just isn't acceptable these days. Ouch! Still, when last year's manager opted out because of time constraints at work (although he remains one of the squad's invaluable coaches) how could I not step into the breech?

During games, I do a lot of pacing, exhorting, clapping, and yes, admonishing. However, I'm never out of earshot of my coaches or the players' parents, and I'm always checking in to make sure I'm acting within proper boundaries. So far, so good, although I don't pretend to know what anyone is muttering about my managing style on the drive home.

The job is a lot tougher than I thought, but again, that's my fault. If I have a character flaw (besides my profound lack of empathy), it's that I have trouble walking in other peoples' shoes (in this case, my players'). When I first played Little League ball 39 years ago, my dad was the manager. We went 13-1. He made me the catcher because it was a thinking position that required a take-charge guy who knew how to push the pitchers' buttons. I also had a sharp tongue and razzed many a batter from under all that equipment.

He didn't care about physical errors even though our skills improved immensely under his watchful eye. To him, baseball mainly was a mental game, and he always was drilling us about situations; simple things, actually: knowing the count and how many out there were; what we were going to do with the ball if it was hit to us; throwing ahead of the runner; backing up overthrows, etc. He loved to tell the story of how Brooklyn Dodger manager Leo Durocher, while pacing the dugout, suddenly would stop right in front of a seated player so that individual could not see the scoreboard. "What's the count?" Leo the Lip would bark. A wrong answer was good for a $50 fine, a lot of money, even to a ballplayer, in the early 1940s.

My team is a long way from Durocher's Dodgers or even my dad's Senators. For example, one of our players, apparently convinced that kickball and baseball are played under the same rules, purposely hit an opposing baserunner in the back with the ball. He really meant no harm and honestly believed the runner to be out. When I explained that, on a force play, all the fielder has to do is step on the base, he looked at me confused: "What's a force?"

In our season opener against the Dodgers, with what seemed like a safe 13-2 lead, I shuffled things up the last couple of innings, trying to give more kids a shot at the "action" positions in the infield. Our lead quickly dissipated in a cacophony of miscues. Still, we led by two heading into the Dodgers' final at-bat. With the bases loaded and two out, one of our coaches moved the new shortstop a couple of steps to the left. The positioning proved perfect. The batter hit a hard grounder right to him, so hard, in fact, that, when the kid fielded the ball cleanly, the runner on first was barely off the base. Our guy was no more than three feet from second; all he had to do was step on the bag. He just stood there--frozen; never moved an inch despite bellowing instructions from multiple sources. The next batter singled to right and we were 19-18 losers. Certainly not the auspicious managerial debut I had envisioned. In the rematch, we had a two-ran lead and were one out from winning. Then an easy pop fly to center went untouched and the floodgates opened. Still, we rallied to tie it in our last at-bat and went home satisfied with a contest called on account of impending darkness and cranky, cold parents. Tony LaRussa can relax; his job is safe.

Of course, baseball, and kids for that matter, are nothing if not unpredictable. Though the 1962 Mets have nothing on us, we lead the league in double plays. (There are no official stats--or even won-loss records--you'll just have to trust me.) Of course, the DP proficiency has as much to do with our opponents' chaotic baserunning as it does with our fielding acumen. Batting can be equally mysterious. Our worst hitter--a real likable little kid with a constant smile on his face and a penchant for playing in the dirt when he's supposed to be manning right field--can take 10, 15, even 20 swings without making contact. In our most lopsided defeat of the season--a flat-out awful effort against the Giants--this mighty might went a legitimate three-for-four, pulling the ball with previously unseen authority. In the next four games, he struck out every time up, never even managing a foul tip. Go figure.

One of the ultimate charms as well as most appealing aspects of baseball, from big league ball fight on down to the pee wee level, is its history, whether it be from the official record books, stories and traditions passed on from generation to generation, or just plain old personal memories. As for myself, I enjoy drawing parallels, and while some many appear tenuous to outsiders, they hold meaning for me. This may be a bit too stream of consciousness, but here goes:

The first year my father managed Little League, his team was the Senators of Washington fame. In this, my first season at the helm, major league baseball has returned to Washington, D.C., for the first time in 34 years. The transplanted Montreal Expos, which now call the nation's capital their home, have been renamed the Nationals. My clad was named after Brooklyn Dodger shortstop Glenn Wright, a pretty good player in the late 1920s. We're expecting our fourth child this summer. I proposed the names Nathaniel if it's a boy or Natalie if it's a girl. In either case, Nat for short, same as the abbreviated nickname of the Nationals. My wife says no way. Yet, shortly after I suggested the monickers, the Nats ripped off a double-digit winning streak and bolted into first place in mid June, the latest point in a season that a Washington team has held the top spot since 1933, when Washington (then known as both the Nationals and Senators) won the American League pennant, losing the World Series to my favorite team, the Giants. I was born two months after the Giants played their last game in New York before moving to San Francisco. I feel as if mine and the S.E Giants' birthrights somehow are connected; I sense that same connection with the Nationals and our baby-to-be. Strange that my son played for the Yankees (albeit the Pee Wee Americans version) the same year the real Bronx Bombers staged the greatest collapse in baseball history. Also strange that my son would be on the Cardinals the very next season, the team that the Red Sox vanquished in the World Series (for their first championship since 1918) after dispensing with the Yanks. The year after Boston's Impossible Dream season--the Sox won the A.L. pennant in 1967 against all odds before losing to the Cardinals in the World Series--I, as a 10-year-old and against all odds, earned a spot in the Little League majors, playing for the Red Sox. Like our namesakes, we would break many hearts in impossible-to-believe fashion. The top two teams qualified for the playoffs and decided the title in a best two-of-three series. We finished second. The first-place team went 2-0 against us in the regular season. In the playoffs, we beat them in extra innings in the opener. In the second game, we led 5-0 with two out and nobody on in the final inning. They rallied for six runs against our best pitcher. The game-winning hit came to me in center field. Devastated, we were blown out in the deciding game. Eighteen years later, I was there for the Red Sox's World Series collapse against the Mets ... a sure thing slips through the fingers ... last inning, two out, nobody on ... weird.

Though frustrating, the present season will be cherished for a lot of reasons For one, my daughter proved an able bat girl, equipment manager, and bench coach. One read-through and she's memorized the lineup. Even her bossy nature is endearing as she makes sure the on-deck hitter has his helmet on and his favorite lumber (er, aluminum) in hand. When it's our turn to take the field, she helps find missing gloves and hats. Apparently, she abhors slow games with the same vigor as her father. Her take-charge nature is apparent other places as well. At her elementary school's field day, a big-deal annual sports event held near the end of the academic year, the teachers, reading from a list, typically stand behind their seated class and call out the names of students who are to participate in the next event. Imagine my surprise (and I must admit, delight), when I saw my daughter patrolling behind the "bench," roster in hand, ordering her charges into battle--and her teacher taking a seated respite with a water bottle. Later, I told the teacher that Miss Bossy Boots acts the same way at our baseball games. "Your daughter was running the whole thing anyway," confirmed her teacher with a smile. "It's a hot day; so, I gave her the list and sat down."

Sometimes, I wish it was that easy with my team. There are a number of perks to managing, though, perhaps the foremost being getting to talk baseball more often with my son. When we throw the ball around after dinner, there is this beautiful--stunning, really--strong-throated cardinal who always appears in the same tree to serenade us. "Dad, do the Cardinals have a mascot?" he queried between tosses. I grimaced to myself, recalling the horrific Fred Bird the Red Bird. "Yes," I answered. "Well," he said, "if we get this cardinal to follow us to the field, could he be our mascot?" And you thought only little girls were precious.

At another school event, "Authors' Tea," students read original stories they've written to an assembled gathering of parents. Alex wore an old Cardinals jersey I had bought him a few years back. It used to hang off him like a nightshirt. Now, it barely fits. (How quickly they grow up.) He dedicated his story, about baseball, to his grandmother, the source of his love for the Redbirds. The tale was about his best-ever game in which he made several dazzling defensive plays and contributed a number of big hits. In the end, though, his team lost when a monkey, playing for the opposing team, made a spectacular diving catch in the outfield. Alex then woke up to find a snowstorm raging outside. It had all been a dream. I was impressed. Apparently, he understands that victories do not come easily, even in made-up stories where he controls the ending.

Even on those rare occasions when he "wiseguys" me, he does it with just the right mix of humility and cockiness. For instance, coming home from practice one night, I was on his case about chasing high pitches. On and on I went about "zoning" the ball and being more selective at the plate. "Yeah, Dad," he replied with a sly smile, "but how about that one you threw up around around my eyes--and I bombed it!" Actually, it was over his head, but he swung the bat at an almost 90-degree angle to the ground, sending the ball soaring into the gap in left-center. Hey, Yogi Berra was a notorious bad-ball hitter, too.

Alex can take a good-natured ribbing, a good trait for a youngster to have. After his pitching setback--by the way, I broke the rules and let him wear his special "Sunday" cap since he was pitching--I chided him with a fictitious post-game report: "Much heralded Cardinals rookie southpaw Alex Barrett made his Pee Wee Nationals pitching debut Saturday against the Mets here at JFK Elementary School Field 2. Brought in to protect a one-run lead, the fireballing lefty nevertheless was lit up by a four-spot with the game on the line, though none of the runs were earned. The young lefty, known for his debonair duds and distinctive eyeblack, hopes to rebound next Saturday when the reeling Cardinals try to get back on track against the Giants."

"Why do I get the loss?" he wondered, doubtless knowing he threw the best of the seven hurlers (for both teams) who took the mound that day.

"Because you came in with your team ahead and left with it behind--and they never tied the score to get you off the hook."

"What's off the hook?" he asked.

"Alex, why do you always ask questions you already know the answer to?" I complained.

"I don't know.... Daddy, can we have a catch when we get home?"

"Sure, buddy. And we can go home just as soon as you and your sister pack up the equipment bag--and don't forget the bases, or my mitt."

"We won't."

Well, maybe I will come back to manage ... for just one more season.

Wayne M. Barrett is Publisher and Editor-in-Chief of USA Today.