Je n'aime pas les Blackbirds

Group: Blackbirds AllStar 12U + Blackbirds 12U

Date: July 16th, 2025 – 20h24

I’ve always been transparent about who I am and what I bring to the table. For those who never asked — no, I never played baseball competitively. I can’t claim the glory of AA, AAA, or beyond. I love the game deeply, but I’ve never pretended to be an expert.

So why was I asked to coach? I honestly don’t know. Why did I accept? Out of a desire to help, to be involved, to share something meaningful with my kids. I’ve been an assistant coach for three seasons, including a stint with Les Aigles AA. I believed I had something to offer — and I took the responsibility seriously.

I’ve done my absolute best to be worthy of your trust — to take care of your children on the field, to give every player a fair opportunity to grow, to foster a positive experience regardless of the scoreboard. Aware that I had two sons on the team, I made a conscious effort to check my own biases. I even built tools and spent countless hours trying to ensure fairness and balance in every decision I made.

Because I care. I care about every one of these players — not just as athletes, but as young people. When T., R., F., J., and R. got injured, I stepped in to help however I could — with care, with follow-up, with reassurance. I’ve been proud to offer that support.

But this weekend, it was #10 — my son — who got hurt. A questionable play led to a painful finger injury. We did everything we could that day: ice, rest, taping, massage — anything to manage the swelling and give him a chance to keep playing safely. There was no signs of a major injury, but the oedema was significant. Still, by early Saturday morning, he could swing a bat with discomfort, yes, but without pain severe enough to hold him back from hitting. Pitching, however, was a different story. Gripping and throwing the ball just wasn’t possible.

That morning, before the game, I stood next to my son as he tested his throwing hand — not interfering, just watching closely to make sure the taping was holding and that he was okay. Then, Pascal approached me. He didn’t speak — he commanded: “Leave him alone!” and “Let him play!” in a tone I can only describe as authoritarian. I tried to explain that I wanted him to play, that I was only making sure he could safely do so, but I wasn’t even allowed to finish my sentence. I was scolded, told I was disrupting “his” team and “destroying the mindset.” It was as if taking care of an injured child — my own or anyone else’s — was suddenly a problem.

This wasn’t about strategy. It wasn’t about ego. It was about a boy with a bruised finger and a parent making sure he was okay — just like I had done for other players all season long. The only difference this time was that the player was my son.

After Pascal’s monologue, I calmly said, “Alex can hit, but he can’t pitch.” The reply I received was a chilling threat:

“If he can’t pitch, he can’t play.”

Followed by:

“If you want to stay, it’s under my rules.”

That moment said everything I needed to know. It wasn’t just arrogance. It was a complete disregard for a child’s wellbeing — a willingness to risk injury for the sake of control. And I won’t be complicit in that. That’s when I stepped away.

Coaching youth sports demands one simple rule: always care about your player’s physical and emotional wellbeing. Always try to put them in a position where they have the best chance to succeed and grow.

That didn’t happen here.

Instead, Alexander — visibly injured — was sent to the mound in the championship game. Not only was his health disregarded, but he was thrown into a situation almost designed to break him. Top of the 4th. Game tied 0-0. M. (#22), a known power hitter with multiple home runs in the season, is intentionally walked. Next up: D. (#66), another slugger having a huge weekend. Just the day before, #66 took our healthy ace pitcher, #17, deep.

So what happens? Alexander, injured, is sent to face this hitter — arguably the most dangerous hitter of the tournament — while clearly unfit to pitch. First pitch, and #66 crushes it 250+ feet. A confidence-shattering blow for any player, let alone one who is in pain.

It didn’t have to happen that way. After #66, the rest of that lineup managed just 3 hits and 8 strikeouts — including infield hits and grounders. Even with two on and no outs, it was a manageable situation for any pitcher. But instead of managing the situation, we set up a child to fail — to get hurt, physically and emotionally — in a game that should have been about growth and joy.

After the home run, Alexander was pulled from the mound and left in tears — not just from pain, but from deep frustration. Yes, he had been asked if he could pitch, and of course he said yes — he wanted to play, he wanted to help his team. That’s what kids do. But afterward, he was overwhelmed with guilt for being injured, for not performing the way he used to, for feeling like he let everyone down. And that’s exactly why adults are meant to make the hard decisions — to protect players, even from their own desire to push through pain. As a father, watching this unfold, I was heartbroken. Because this wasn’t just a tough game — it was a moment when a child needed guidance and care, and didn’t get it.

This wasn’t just a tactical mistake. It was, frankly, malpractice — both in terms of player management and game strategy. And both errors came at my son’s expense.

Alexander is no stranger to pressure. He’s faced it and thrived. He helped this team win two trophies last fall. He was part of last year’s AA team and among the top 10 players selected to represent la Mauricie at the provincial championship. But this time, he wasn’t given the opportunity to succeed. He was thrown to the wolves, and it broke him.

This incident was not isolated. It was simply the last straw. I’ve given everything I could to this team — my time, my energy, my heart. My sons have played with dedication and pride. We didn’t deserve to be treated this way, and we will not tolerate it.

That’s why I am stepping away from all coaching duties, and our family will be leaving the organization at the end of the season.

I say this with deep disappointment, but with clarity. This was supposed to be about building something — together. Instead, it ended with a child in tears, not because he lost a game, but because he was let down by the adults who were supposed to protect him. We expected better. And we’re moving forward with the hope that we can find it elsewhere.