All of my teammates either went on to Fairview, Chaminade or Colonel White.
As Winter fades into Spring, you can see the daffodils and
tulips as they begin to push through the snow covered gardens. And as the trees
begin to show their buds , yet a new scent begins to waft it's way through the
basements and garages as young boys and now young girls begin to massage their
dried out leather ball gloves with oil, making the gloves flexible and able to scoop
up that ground ball in the coming days.
The father/coaches begin to dust off their rosters from
the previous season lamenting the loss of their number four hitter who has moved
on to the next older division. But this will be the year. ...This will be the
championship year as they plot each inning, each pitch, each decision, long
before the first pitch will be thrown.
Coaches are born, not made...just like the young charges
that will come before them. Good coaches have the gift of compassion, the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of Job.......they have to be...they will leave an
imprint in the lives of the innocent followers for the rest of their
lives.
My close friend while growing up, Eddie, retells the
story of a coach that he and I had when we first started our careers in
baseball. Although he was our coach, he was also my dad. I didn't witness the
conversation, but if Eddie says it happened...you can bet your Willie Mays
baseball card it happened.
Our official baseball world took place at Triangle Park in
Dayton, Ohio. There were three small fields that bordered the Stillwater River
and we would practice on the dirt fields and play our games on Friday nights.
There were six teams in the league, and as Eddie likes to remember, the kids
that played for Inland Mfg. all had beards and probably drove their own cars to
the game.
One sunny afternoon during practice while we were catchin' fly
balls or tryin' to field that hot grounder apparently,
one of our teammates had an "accident" in his britches and the tears began to
roll down his cheeks. He was embarrassed beyond belief and knew he would be
labeled for the rest of his life.
Our coach (my dad) walked over to the young boy and asked
why he was crying...The boy whimpered as he tried to tell my dad what had
happened.
Dad was simply a hard working man without any formal
education but he was a father of 3 boys...so he knew what to do.
As Eddie recounts the story...in my Dad's Stengalese
wisdom, he proceeded to put his arm around the young soul and said..."Son. all of us
have accidents....all of us make mistakes....I'm a man, I'm married and even I have crapped in my pants......but what you do from then on is what is important....you wipe your butt off....you wash away the tears and you go out and try
harder".
It wasn't profound but Eddie says the scene stayed with
him over the years and he remembered how important coaches can be in our
lives.
So here's to the lads who will wait for the snow to melt
away....wait for the grass to begin to sprout and listen for the sound of "Play
Ball" as yet another season begins.
