I am the manager of my younger son’s winless youth travel baseball team. In news that is almost certainly related, I don’t sleep well at night.

My 8U squad — that’s a team made up of kids ages 7 and 8, for those of you who don’t speak the vernacular — is comprised of talented kids who completely forget what to do once our games start, a consistent occurrence that magnifies my frustration each week when our opponents string together hits and pitch well, while we struggle to put the ball in play or complete a routine ground ball to second base when in the field.

We are our town’s “A” team for this age group and my salt and pepper hair is turning sugar white in a cocktail that is equal parts exasperation, helplessness and disappointment — a good chunk of which I feel in myself.

Travel sports is the epitome of the virulent underbelly of youth athletics where kids go to other towns and states in a more competitive environment to play games. Unlike traditional rec programs, travel sports are focused on player development, winning and luring parents into spending money to help Johnny and Susie chug along the road to athletic greatness that will most likely hit a cul-de-sac before high school begins.

I may be a volunteer, but managing has taken over my life — I spend more time talking to my assistant coaches each day than I do my own wife. I agonize over lineups in the hopes something will jumpstart our team. I belong to various coaching Facebook groups. I pick the brains of other coaches I know, looking for advice, drills and a magical serum that will instantly transform these boys into a squad of pint-sized Mike Trouts.

I have yelled. I have joked. I have offered to let the boys throw a pie in my face if and (hopefully) when we win a game. I name a captain for each game to let the kids focus and feel like leaders. I have bribed them with candy as prizes for winning games that we play to spice up drills.

Parents are not happy with me. I held a parent meeting and, while cordial, it's clear they don't agree with my approach, which has switched from rotating positions to letting kids stay in the same spot to get more familiar with what to do so they can excel. Multiple parents want their children to pitch, even though the coaches and I feel they struggle with control and mechanics. I’ve been accused of favoring certain kids because they play infield too much. We play once a week, so it’s hard to meet all the demands.

The off-field drama is more draining than a 90-minute practice in the heat. This balancing act of developing players, winning games, having fun and pleasing parents is like trying to hit a 100-mile-per hour fastball with a bat whose handle is covered in Vaseline.

I have utterly failed and it kills me. I am a veteran of coaching, having gone through the paces with my older son. Those experiences have always been amazing and we both made great friends, learned valuable lessons and created positive memories. It’s been harder this time out and I hope I can turn it around.

I will continue to watch weather forecasts with the ferocity of a guard dog. I’ll keep sending emails to other coaches to schedule games and to our league office, a centralized, if not nebulous and omnipotent entity that controls teams and organizes tournaments around our state. I’ll try to remain positive, but, although it's not nearly the only thing that matters at this age, winning is the elixir we crave and, like the boys’ attention spans, it’s in short supply.

I am exhausted. It’s June and we still have two months to go.

Pray for rain.