The other night,
after the parents had all come to pick up their sons and I was picking up catcher's
equipment, bats and, of course, one forgotten mitt, it dawned on me that this was it: the
last season I would coach one of my sons' baseball teams.
Two sons. Twelve seasons. Hundreds of games. Maybe three decent umps.
And thousands of memories, hidden in my mind like all those foul balls lost in the creek
behind the Ascot Park backstop.
Sitting in the rickety bleachers that spring evening -- everyone had
gone - I found myself lost in thought, mentally walking along the creek, finding those
long-forgotten foul balls and listening to the stories they had to tell.
The time our left fielder got locked in a Dairy Queen
bathroom during a post game celebration. The time I handed a protective cup to our new
catcher and he thought it was an oxygen mask. The time a T-baller cleanly fielded a
grounder, picked it up and tossed it to his mom, who was sitting behind third base reading
Gone With the Wind.
For
something that became more than a decade-long family affair, it had begun casually enough.
While watching one of my 5-year-old son's T-ball games in 1985, a manager asked if I would
coach second base.
"Uh, second base?"
"Yeah. At this level you need coaches at second base or the kids
will forget to take a left and wind up at Safeway."
So I coached second base. And before long, our family's summers
revolved around a diamond: me coaching, my wife, Sally, keeping score, and the boys
playing. Like the Israelites trudging out of Egypt, we hauled our equipment, lawn chairs,
video cameras and 64-ounce drinks from ball field to ball field, week after week, summer
after summer.
The time our right fielder turned up missing during a
championship game, only to be found at the snack bar eating licorice and flirting with
girls. The time we showed up at an empty field, only to discover that I'd read the
schedule wrong and our game was actually 10 miles away.
The time I explained to my fifth-grade team that, because we'd given
up 89 runs in the last four games, we needed to set up a defensive goal.
"It's a six-inning game," I explained. "Let's just try to hold them to 12
runs per game. Two per inning. Can you do that?" Silence.
Then my philosophical right fielder spoke up. "Coach,"
he said, "do we have to give up the runs even like that, or could we like give up all
12 in the last inning?"
Our teams were more than a collection of kids. They were extended family, some of whom
would end up sleeping overnight and going to church with us. And some of the boys
desperately needed that. One year, of 15 players, only five had a mother and father living
together under the same roof. Once, a boy missed practice because his aunt had been
murdered. And I can't count the number of times I took kids home because nobody came to
pick them up.
But I've always remembered the advice I heard at a coaching clinic:
"Who knows? The six hours a week you spend with a kid might be the only six hours he
actually feels loved."
As a Christian, what a wonderful opportunity to be salt and light, even
if all the memories aren't of homers and humor.
The out-of-control coach who pushed me off the
field. The kid who didn't get picked for my team firing a splat gun at our left fielder.
The father who dropped off his son, Willie, and told him to get his own ride home; he and
his girlfriend were going to a tavern to throw darts. We went into extra innings that
afternoon, and the man's son played the game of his life, going all nine innings at
catcher and making the game-winning hit.
We tried to make it more than just baseball. With help from our sons, we established a
team newspaper. A few times, I'd put candy in a sack at second base and let players dig in
every time they threw out a runner. (Best defensive practice we ever had.)
Sally was our DH - designated healer - with her ever-present cooler of
pop and packages of frozen corn for sprained ankles and bruised arms. Once, we had pizza
delivered to the ballfield just after we'd lost to a team with one of those
scream-and-yell coaches. I think we had more fun that night than the team that won.
The time we won with only eight players. The time
Michael, a friend of my youngest son, spent the night at our house and played hours of
backyard baseball, the rules stipulating that you must run the bases backward. The next
morning, in a regulation game, Michael hit a hot grounder and promptly took off -
for third base.
Over
the years we won games, we lost games, and we lost baseballs -- zillions of them. But for
every ball we lost, we gained a memory. As a family, we laughed together, cried together,
got dusty together - as if each of those hundreds of games was a microcosm of real life,
which it was.
A weak-hitting kid named Cody stroking a three-run double
and later telling his mom, "I'm trying to stop smiling, but I just can't."
My
oldest son becoming my assistant coach and reaching a few kids in a way that I could not.
Kids I coached as third-graders now taller than I am.
And, of course, the night we were going to win the city
championship. But for the first time in two months, it rained. Instead of playing on a
field of dreams with perfectly straight white lines and a public address system, some
official handed us a bunch of medals and called us co-champs.
Later that night, after the postseason pizza banquet, the restaurant
manager approached me, broom in hand. "Excuse me, but are you the coach of the
Washington Braves?"
"I sure am," I said, figuring he was going to pull me out
of my doldrums by congratulating me on the co-championship.
"Coach," he said, handing me the broom, "your team
trashed the indoor play room. Wanna help sweep?"
Two sons. Twelve seasons. Hundreds of games. As a family, we had shared them
all. But what, I wondered, had we missed in the process? What had we given up in order to
pursue what some might see as trivia?
Nothing. Because whether your family is together at baseball games or
camping trips or rodeos or dog shows or soccer tournaments or swim meets, the common
denominator is this: families together -- a rarity in our busy times -- making memories.
Learning lessons. Sowing seeds that can be nourished only by time.
Regrets? Only one. I wish Willie's father had considered his son more
important than a game of darts. He missed seeing his teammates mob him after making the
the game-winning hit.
The time a tall third baseman was making fun of my 4-foot-9 son at the plate --
until my son nearly took his head off with a line-drive double.
My oldest son proudly posing for pictures with his grandparents
after the team won a city championship.
The time he played his final game and walking to the car afterward,
it hit me like a line drive in the side of the head. This was it, I'd never coach him in
baseball again.
Dusk
was descending. It was time to head for home where my family -- the boys were now 17 and
15 -- would be. As I slung the equipment bag over my shoulder and walked down from the
stands, I noticed a young father and his son playing catch between short and third.
I smiled slightly and headed for the car, leaving behind plenty of lost
balls for others to find.
Bob Welch is the features editor of the Register-Guard
newspaper in Eugene, Oregon. He can be reached by e-mail at