The kid's name was Jack McMahon, and he was a pitcher, a good one. He was more than good-- he was super and dominant and overpowering. There was a reason for that-- his size. Big. A head taller than his catcher, and very close in stature to his grownup manager. The game was not his team versus the other team. It was Jack McMahon versus the other team.

A cocky obnoxious kid who could blow the ball right past anyone.

His opponents swung wild, swung late, or didn't swing at all. They never saw the ball, and they had but one strategy: Run to first on strike three.

Jack's catcher was as outmatched as any batter, and the ball often whizzed by him to the backstop. In this manner, the Cardinals occasionally would get a base runner.

The dropped-third-strike offensive strategy. And whenever it resulted in a Cardinal baserunner, Jack yelled his disgust at his catcher.

A superstar in the making, and we're witnessing it. That's what Dave said. He was pleased with himself for bringing this phenom to my attention, and yakked about how good he was. He thought I shared his excitement.

I didn't.

And I didn't like watching it from the middle of the playing field either, but Dave wanted to impress me. When it got dull, he would drive the cart through the centerfielder-- his way of entertaining me. It struck me as unprofessional.

Deirdre would never have pulled a stunt like that.

The game was more interesting when Jack's team-- the White Sox-- came to bat. The ball was batted, put in play, fielded, and thrown. The kids ran the bases. Then Jack himself stood in the batter's box. He waved his bat menacingly, and looked fully capable of driving the ball all the way over to the kids on the far diamonds, the kids in the minors.

Here it comes, I thought, and was pleasantly surprised when the Cardinal pitcher gave him an intentional walk. Big Jack threw his bat down, trotted to first with a comment to the pitcher.

"Oh, oh," said Dave. "Did I hear the bleep word? Did he call the other kid a chicken bleep?"

"He certainly did," I said.

"Well you can't blame him," said Dave. "It must be frustrating when they won't let you hit it." He drove our cart toward the infield.

We went right by first base, and Dave asked me if I got a good look at him. "Does he shave yet?"

"He's just big for his age," I said.

I thought Dave would take me to one of the other diamonds then, but when we reached the sidelines he pulled up alongside the bleachers and parked. Asked me to sit in the stands with him, with all the parents.

I didn't want to. "You'll make me visible," I said. "You'll tell some guy 'You know who this is?' just like you did with that vendor outside Fenway."

"Don't you want to find out more about this kid?"

"No." We were on the Cardinal side of the field.

"But he's a prospect!"

"He yells at his teammates, makes fun of his opponents, uses bad language, and thinks the whole world revolves around him."

"He's their best player," said Dave. He got out of the cart.

"Yeah. And he's already got everyone fawning over him."

"That's how it works, John. The world loves a great athlete." He walked toward the Cardinal bench. "He's the next Shane London."

"Not yet," I said. "He's still a kid." The Cardinal manager was at one end, two other boys next to the big picnic jug at the other end. Plus a woman in a lawn chair to the left of the manager. His wife? She had the scorebook.

"But he's on his way," said Dave. "You can see it coming." He peered over the shoulder of the scorekeeper. "High school ball. College. And then you guys will draft him." He straightened up, walked away from her, and climbed into the stands.

I disapproved of him leaving me.

Dee would have stayed in one place. I remained in the golf cart, and followed Dee's advice to act like I was watching TV.

Every so often Dave would return. "See that couple in the second row? That's the third baseman's parents." He thought I was interested in stuff like this. "Those boys on the bench? They have to play. They'll get in the game right at the end."

In between his visits, I tried to evaluate the talent, as if I were a baseball man, as if I were Skip Lu. Identify the players who can be moved up, the ones likely to succeed at the next level of play.

That's what a player development man does.

Seeing it from this perspective depressed me.

Prospects, suspects and roster-fillers.

Jack McMahon is the prospect and the other boys don't matter. Just a bunch of roster fillers.

The Cardinal bench came to life when it was their half of the inning. Boys swinging bats and taking practice cuts, other kids asking permission to go to the bathroom or concession stand, boisterous activity around the big picnic jug of Kool-aid, and the scorekeeper calling the names of the boys scheduled to bat that inning.

It was nowhere near as lively in the field. Jack mowed down Cardinal batters and his teammates daydreamed. They tried not to show their boredom, but you could see they weren't in the game.

The biggest excitement came when a kid from the Cardinals hit a rocket down the third baseline. The White Sox leftfielder was caught flatfooted, let the ball skip past him. From my side of the field came the cheers of frustrated Cardinal parents and fans as their guy sped around the bases and made it home.

I cheered with them.

It was an easy transition from Jack McMahon against the other team to Jack McMahon against his own team. He yelled at his outfielder for sleeping on the job, his shortstop for not going out for the relay, his catcher for not blocking the plate.

Jack McMahon against the world.

Dave returned to the golf cart. "Did you see that?" He was as delighted as any Cardinal parent. "That kid just closed his eyes and swung." He pretended to swing the bat. "He's a scrapper! A real scrapper!"

"He was lucky," I said.

"That's how you beat this guy," said Dave. "Never give up!" Then he pointed to Jack. "He's beatable, boys, he's beatable!" He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. "He's winning but he isn't having fun, John." I nodded agreement. "He's playing a game but he's mad at the world."

My corpulent spirit had changed his attitude toward the juvenile star. "If I'm his manager I pull him out of there. Right now. What do you think, John? What would Peeler Fitch do with him?"

"Put up with his tantrums," I said. "That's what he does with Shane."

As a matter of fact the White Sox manager was shouting encouragement to Jack.

"I'd like to see him handle some real pressure," said Dave. "Let's see how he competes then."

"Keep your focus, Jack! Bear down on him, Jack! He's no hitter!"

"Let's see how he does against someone his own size."

I was reminded of the playoffs. "He'll probably do an El Foldo," I said. "Just like Shane did."

The Sox manager continued to encourage his pitcher, and Dave expressed disgust: "Little League! What a crock!"

"The world loves a great athlete," I said.

"But does it have to start so young?"

"What brought this on?"

"I've had enough of Boy Wonder," he said.

"Dave?"

"Prima donna."

"Aren't you supposed to tell me it's better now?"

"Better than the past?" I nodded. "This isn't better." he said.

Dee would never agree with this.

"Little League is a system for discovering the Shane Londons and the Jack McMahons.

"It's a system that teaches kids at a very early age that they are more important than anyone else.

"It's a system for letting snotnose brats develop swelled heads and a vastly inflated sense of self-worth."