(CNN) On November 12, 2017, the same day a 7.3 earthquake hit near Halabjal, Iraq, and gossip columnist Liz Smith died at age 94, Emmett Leo Pearlman, my son, wrapped up his Little League baseball career.

Jeff Pearlman

He was 11 at the time, a good-glove, no-hit middle infielder for the Dodgers with seven seasons under his belt. And as he walked from the field for the last time, equipment bag slung over his shoulder, cleats clicking off the sidewalk, I turned toward my wife and bellowed, with the glee of an intoxicated game show host, "Thank ****ing God!"

"Yup," she said, smiling. "I'm so happy we're done."

This is no exaggeration, and you can read about Emmett's baseball meanderings here . Throughout much of his time playing league ball, all I wanted was for him to stop playing. From the never-ending games to the overzealous coaches to the preposterously priced equipment to the emphasis on private swing coaches to the thug middle-of-the-order kid who thinks he's the next Bryce Harper, youth baseball is too often a miserable, jerk-riddled endeavor that I would no sooner wish upon my future grandchildren than I would a head filled with lice.

Worst of all? Hands down — the parents. Or, to be precise, the corrosive influence of too many parents.

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