Band-aid

There comes a time when a young man starts to lose his hair (or it turns gray), his back aches more and more as the days pass by, and he doesn’t quite have the pep in his step that he once did (and don’t you dare blame that on a bad diet or his “dad bod,” either). Along with those changes comes a lack of understanding of new-age pop culture references, new music progressively sounds worse and worse, and he becomes more resistant to change. One could say, “he’s becoming his father,” while I say, “I’m growing up.” Regardless of the phrasing, times are changing, and I can either get with the changes or get left behind.

I’ll choose the former here, because, well, I have no other option. I give you this lengthy introduction to set the stage for the topic at the top of my head for this week: baseball and softball teams using the QB wrist coach from football.

This is my first spring sports season, and like the other seasons, I absolutely love it. Baseball and softball photography have easily become my favorites, because there’s nothing like getting the bat making contact with a pitch or the dirt kicking up as someone slides under the tag into second. But in my first few games this year, I was confused.

I sent a text to one of my reporters, who has been doing this for a long time, along the lines of “Are they using QB wrist coaches on the softball field?” and to no one’s surprise, the answer was yes. I wasn’t against it by any means, I was just trying to figure out its place on the diamond.

Many, many moons ago, when I played high school football (circa 2008-2011), the only ones who got those fancy wristbands were the quarterback and the “skilled” position players. Us beefy linemen surely couldn’t do much with those, could we? Surely, between our blocking assignments and muscling the opposition around the field, adding something like that to our repertoire was just too much. All we needed to know was where to block on the given play.

If your quarterback was cool (and he usually is), he looped his through the front of his belt, so when the play call’s number came in, he could look down and read it, instead of wasting all of that extra time looking … down at his wrist instead. Some of the coolest wide receivers even adopted this life hack, too.

Honestly, I have no clue what was written on those things. One time, a fellow lineman found one on the ground during a two-a-day, and soon an all white van came, two guys jumped out and put a bag over his head, and I haven’t seen him since. That was uncharted territory for us “unskilled” players.

So, when I heard a coach call out a specific number, and the entire infield looked down at their wrists, I was thoroughly confused. Not only does this happen for every pitch while a team is on defense, but it also happens on the base paths.

Gone are the days, I believe, when the catcher calls the pitches — at least at the high school level. Instead, coaches have now streamlined this and allowed themselves to make that call. But not only can they call the pitch, but they can also adjust their defense, shifting as needed, making them aware of a potential sacrifice hitting situation, or any other adjustments a coach would need to make. Before, they would have to yell instructions, which both teams could hear, and that took some of the surprise aspect out of it.

In the batter’s box, it becomes even simpler. The third base coach no longer has to do a 15-minute routine involving swiping his hands across his chest or touching his ear 84 times, all for it to be a distraction, since he never gave the “follow this” command before he started this routine. Now, he can just call out a series of numbers — one for the batter and one for the runner(s) — and that’s that. Or, at least, that’s how I think it works. I have still yet to see one of these up close, partially due to my fear of being kidnapped for doing so.