Your Body Is Talking. Even When You Aren’t.

Rarely does one of our training topics get this specific. But recently, while watching the Little League World Series, I felt like I was watching an old-school church tent meeting. Emotions were screaming. Except nobody had to say a word.

The eye roll while the coach was talking on the mound.  The glove thrown after an error. Shoulders slumped after a strikeout. A helmet slammed into the ground. Then the other side of it: the jumping, twisting, pure joy of a kid rounding the bases after hitting the first home run of his life.

Body language.

We spend countless hours teaching athletes what to do with their feet, hands, hips, shoulders and eyes. But how often do we teach them what those same body parts are saying? There is research behind this. A study of players at the 2022 FIFA World Cup documented more than 18,000 nonverbal behaviors. Character Combine specifically identifies behaviors such as eye-rolling, throwing up the hands, and turning away as messages that coaches should recognize and address.

Sound familiar? It does to me. Because once upon a time I gave a body language clinic. Unfortunately, it was a clinic in exactly what not to do.

SUMMER OF 1989

I played for El Dorado Legion Post 119. It was, by far, the most competitive baseball environment I had ever experienced. And Coach King was King. About 6-foot-5, barrel-chested and a southpaw, Coach King could confront me, challenge me and sometimes crush me without saying a word.

Body language.

We were playing the much more talented Haggin/Grant Legion team. Somehow, we were winning, 3–1. I was on the mound late in the game, having given up only one run. An error. Then a double. I managed to get a couple of outs. And then to the plate stepped LaRue Baber.

Baber was one of those players who simply looked different. Division I talent. Professional attention. Chiseled. Strong. Tall. Less like a teenager and more like a grown man who had accidentally wandered into an American Legion game. I glanced at my catcher, Dave Pearson.

This was it. We'd try to lure him out over the plate with hard sliders outside the zone. Swing and a miss. Then I got a gift from the umpire. 0–2. For a moment, I was King of the World. Or at least Nolan Ryan. Except Baber wasn't going anywhere. Ball. 1–2. Circle change. Ball two. Eventually: 3–2. Full count. I hated full counts. There is nowhere to hide. One pitch decides who won the battle.

Dave gave me the signal for our little con job: “Fake and shake.” He'd put down a signal. I'd shake no. Another signal. Shake again. It was theater.

With a 3–2 count, Baber knew I probably had to throw a strike. After watching me shake off two pitches, we wanted him wondering what was left. Everything around me seemed louder. Coach King paced. My teammates yelled behind me. “C’mon Harp.” Runners danced off the bases. It was the exact scenario every kid creates in a backyard Wiffle ball game.

In my best Harry Caray voice, I could hear it: “It is late in the game. Harper has pitched a gem. Full count. David versus Goliath. Harper is here for it. He has been dominating.  And the pitch...”

I glanced toward the bleachers. My mom was there. And my girlfriend, Aimee. Amidst her clapping, she gave me a little thumbs-up. Deep breath. Back to Baber.

Dave and I had convinced practically everybody watching that there was no way I would throw my average-at-best, mediocre 82-mph fastball. Especially LaRue Baber. So naturally... I threw LaRue Baber my average-at-best, mediocre 82-mph fastball.

Belt high. Right in the wheelhouse. Right in HIS WHEELHOUSE. Merry Christmas…

The instant it left my hand, something inside me screamed: “NOOOOOOOOO!”Looking back, the more appropriate word was: “YESSSSSSS.”

Yes, it was belt high. Yes, Baber took a massive hack. Yes, he connected. Yes, the baseball flew like it needed a stewardess. And yes... I am reasonably certain that baseball is still flying.

At least it is in my memory. My ego shattered. Coach King was barking from his dugout castle, and my eyes immediately searched for the bleachers for Aimee. Maybe she could offer a consoling smile before King killed me. My exit had arrived. And this is where today's lesson really begins.

THE TANTRUM

Before Coach King could even reach the mound, I screamed at Dave for calling the pitch. Only one problem. I had called it. I yanked my jersey out of my pants. Threw my hands into the air. Somehow tried to communicate to everyone watching that this catastrophe certainly couldn't have been my fault. Coach King reached the mound and held out his hand for the baseball. I was done.

Instead of handing him the ball, I dropped it on the ground and walked toward the dugout.

Apparently, I hadn't communicated my misery clearly enough. So, I took off my glove...and launched it over the dugout and into the stands. Big Gene King put in the relief pitcher and walked back toward the dugout.

He didn't yell. Which was worse. He calmly sat down next to me, shaking his head.

“Only two of the four runs had been earned,” I offered in one last pitiful attempt at a defense. As if he cared. Finally, he spoke. “Harp, you don't throw tantrums on my team.”

He paused. “You are better than this.” Then came the sentence I really didn't want to hear. “Now I want you to go into the stands and get your glove.”

Oh no. I looked for a bat boy I could send. Nope. I opened the dugout gate. Walked toward the bleachers. Started climbing. And discovered exactly where my glove had landed.

At Aimee's feet. My girlfriend. There I was, the fierce competitor who minutes earlier imagined himself as David preparing to slay Goliath, now reduced to climbing through the bleachers to retrieve the glove I had just thrown in a tantrum.

Humiliation has a funny way of making lessons stick. I thought that was the end of my humiliation. It wasn't.

NEXT WEEK: THE LOUDEST EMOTION — PART 2

THE PART I DIDN'T KNOW YET
After the game, I iced my arm, stretched, and tried to put the whole miserable afternoon behind me. Then I felt something. A dull, gnawing pain deep in my shoulder. Not normal postgame soreness. And suddenly, the glove in the bleachers wasn't the worst thing that happened that day.