Arkansas District 3: Welcome

Check back often, for new updates.

If you have any questions feel free to email me at or call me on my cell phone 501-350-7261.

Travis Young
Arkansas District 3 Administrator

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Sunday, June 26
The Ball Player's Prayer

The Ball Player's Prayer
by Hal Skinner

God grant me wisdom, to tell a strike from a ball, to know where to throw and never to fall.

Keep me always in the base line, running straight and true and I'll look for your sign, to stretch one into two.

God give me vision, to see every pitch, so if a player needs help, then I will see which.

Let me always hustle, so I'll be at my best and take pride in myself, in sports and the rest.

God be my strength, when I throw the ball when I'm far from home plate, or against a wall.

So I never miss a base, please guide my feet, bring me home safely, so my job is complete.

When I help younger players, let me always give praise, so they'll see you in me, in all of my ways.

God please guide our coach, to be fair and smart, to teach us to be good, let it come from his heart.

Let me take a loss, just as well as a win, to do any less, is surely a sin.

As long as I can play, let me make my parents proud, as proud as I am, when they yell my name out loud.

However my games end, let me always have fun and if Heaven has All Stars, I want to be one.

When my games here are over and my seasons are done, let me play on your team, just like your son.


Sunday, January 18
Why We Coach Baseball

Why We Coach Baseball by Pat Miller


Across the parking lot he came, "Brand X" from a Tide Commerical. A study of motion in confusion.

His energy seemed a by-product of the gum he chewed; when he blew a bubble, he came to a complete stop. Most of the time, he sucked the bubble back into his mouth with polished expertise, making his freckled cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's. But occasionally the bubble spread from ear to ear and nose to chin.

The green cap-brim angled to the right and barely controlling the carrot-orange spikes beneath it-rested on the ledges of his flattened ears and made it difficult to tell anything about his eyes. But one thing was certain; he didn't use them to tell where he was going. He depended on his chin, which he pointed out and up.

His jersey, once bright green, now somewhat olive, was further camouflaged with the remains of his mostly mustard and catsup lunch. Stamped across the front of the shirt (if you looked from armpit to armpit) was the name "Bandits," but it was hard to say if he was No. 6 or No. 8. You see, when he walked, the back of the jersey seemed to hiccup from the bottom right side in unison with the movement of his right leg. (Close inspection would have revealed that underneath the jersey, attached to the right rear belt loop of his pants, was a fielder's glove.)

With his left hand, he pulled behind him a bat that bumped across the gravel. It looked like it was attached by an invisible string to the bottom of his left stirrup which had slipped off his foot and ridden up over his heel. The stirrup flapped up every time the bat bumped down.

His uniform pants, once blinding white, now blended almost perfectly with the cloud of dust in which they were centered. From the knees, however, you would have concluded he was a one-man outfield who covered left, center and right without ever standing on his feet.

Laces, haphazardly looped through shoe eyelets, trailed in all directions and occasionally waved in ragged exhaustion, mutely testifying that they had no idea of what it was like to rest on top of a shoe.

He said not one word until he reached the dugout. Then, with the wad of gum poked in one cheek, a hand scratching his non-existant behind, and a grin that made your heart leap, he said, "I've come to play ball, Coach...!!!!!"

Sunday, January 18


A baseball glove is a beginning and and ending: a boy's first sure step towards manhood: a man's final, lingering hold on youth: it is a promise... and a memory.

A baseball glove is the dusty  badge of belonging, the tanned and oiled mortar of team and camaraderie: in its creases and scuffs lodge sunburned afternoons freckled with thrills, the excited hum of competition, cheers that burst like skyrockets.

A baseball glove is a thousand-and-one names and moments strung like white and crimson banners in the vast stadium of memory.

A baseball glove is the leather of adventure, worthy successor to the cowboy's holster, the trooper's saddle and the buckskin laces of the frontier scout; it is combat, heroics, and victory... a place to smack a fist or snuff a rally.

Above all, a baseball glove is the union of father and son, boy and friends, man and men; it is union beyond language, creed or color.

                                                            (The Rawlings Sporting Goods Company, 1965)

Sunday, January 18
Something For the Parents

Every Parent should read this verse by Bob Fox

He Stands at the Plate with heart pounding fast.

The bases are loaded; the die has been cast.

Mom and Dad can not help him, he stands all alone.

A hit at this moment would send the team home.

The ball meets the plate; he swings and he misses.

There's a groan from the crowd, with some boos and some hisses.

A thoughtless voice cries: "Strike out the Bum."

Tears fill his eyes; the game's no longer fun.

So open your heart and give him a break.

For it's moments like this, a man you can make.

Keep this in mind when you hear someone forget.

He's just a little boy and not a man yet.....!!!!!!!