Not anybody involved in girls softball, you see, I was mad at Dunkirk Little League’s baseball managers.

Here’s the way I remember things.

It was Little League registration time in the city, likely February of 1985.

The league signed up boys 8 to 12, girls 9 to 12. My daughter was 8 and wanted to play ball just like the boys in her class.

Bill Hammond

So I registered her for baseball and took her to tryouts. She was the only girl there.

She excelled and, like many young ladies of her age, was taller than most of her male athletic counterparts.

In my admittedly biased mind, she was a late first-round, early second-round draft pick. A top 10 choice for sure.

At no point in either the registration or tryouts was I discouraged by league officials.

I told anyone who would listen on both occasions that I was willing to volunteer as a coach or manager.

I also addressed the elephant in the room — this was a one-year deal. She would play softball the next year.

To counter the one-and-done criticism, I promised to coach a second year and bring along my son, who would be 8 that season.

And lo and behold, not a single manager had the guts to pick her in the draft. Every boy was picked. More were needed to fill rosters. Can you spell conspiracy?

Despite numerous inquiries, I was never able to definitely learn why she wasn’t selected. It made me understandably angry.

The next year, I signed her up for softball and my son for baseball. She played seven seasons in all, including an all-star team spot as a 12-year-old.

I coached or managed her all seven years and enjoyed every minute of it.

Along the way, there were many memorable moments.

It started when our new team’s veteran and very successful manager called our first practice to order.

She plopped down onto the grass and had her team sit in a semicircle in front of her.

She then casually lit a cigarette and asked the girls what they would like to do at practice.

I felt like an alien. What world had I been dropped into?

I would learn quickly that coaching girls was way different than coaching boys.

For one thing, they listened and followed directions. They were sponges, eager to drink in all the softball knowledge I and my coaching staff could impart.

I spent more than 20 summers coaching girls softball, leaving me with many wonderful memories of games, players and coaches. There were league championships, various district crowns and a few sectional all-star titles.

And there were the rare times I was brought to tears by a player.

The first time was by a tiny first-year player who was the younger sister of another player. My mother would have said they came from a “rough” family, whatever that meant.

Well, one day at one of her first practices, she was struck in the face when a pop fly tragically missed her glove.

When I reached her, she was stoically trying not to cry in front of her sister and equally concerned teammates and coaches.

I asked, “Are you OK?” And her answer floored me.

“I’ve been hit in the face a lot worse than that,” she admitted through clenched teeth and a faraway stare.

Stunned by the shockingly truthful reply, I turned away with tears in my eyes after an unexpected glimpse into what I perceived to be a dysfunctional family.

The second time came when my team’s catcher and undisputed team leader had a scheduling conflict.

Her School 7 choir group had a concert that would likely finish right around game time.

I had to promise her that I would keep her in the starting lineup if she was a few minutes late. No problem.

Game time came and went and no catcher.

Minutes into the game I heard a loud crash coming from the nearby school. I saw my catcher jumping down the short flight of stairs at the back of the building.

Both heavy metal doors had been slammed violently open.

Here she came, probably 100 yards to the field. She tore off her black choir robe as she raced toward the field and just left it on the ground. I guess she thought her family was right behind her.

She had her uniform on under her robe and wasn’t about to miss one more pitch than necessary. She ran full tilt the entire way.

Her total commitment struck an emotional chord with me and I had to walk down the third-base line to hide my tears.

Like I said, coaching girls was way different than coaching boys. It was way better.

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DO YOU have a favorite, funny, weird, best or worst memory of amateur sports refereeing, playing or spectating? Drop me a line at mandpp@hotmail.com and let’s reminisce.

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Bill Hammond is a former EVENING OBSERVER sports editor.