The Knuckleballer

Saturday morning, JP's Dodgers played a doubleheader in Antioch at Pitts Park.  It was an absolutely gorgeous day for baseball and as we arrived and got out of my truck, I reveled in the brisk (almost) fall air.  The sky was cerulean blue with only a wispy cirrus cloud or two set out against the entirely blue skyscape.  

We've had so much rain lately, particularly on Saturdays, that it felt good to get out on the field and watch the boys start to warm up, knowing they would get two baseball games in for sure.  For the first time in a while, I felt a sense of normalcy.  Optimism, even.

In what was only their second game of the fall season - on the big field to boot - the boys played a reasonably tough team in game one and beat them 6 - 1.  JP had a client hit to center field, batting in the two hole, his first time up.  I was proud of him, as he's been working hard and hitting off the tee in the backyard almost every day.  

Porter pitched well and gave us just one run in two innings of work.  With the lead, I brought JP in to pitch next.  Facing the top of the order, he played with fire by allowing a couple of baserunners but got out of the inning without giving cup any runs.  I talked to him on the mound at one point and told him to calm down, as he was uncharacteristically showing a lot of emotion when a batter got on base or he didn't get a call he wanted from the umpire on a pitched ball.

The fourth inning as more of an adventure, as JP walked the bases full after retiring the first batter on a pop fly.  I noticed from my vantage point in the first base dugout that the runner on first was taking a huge head, so I casually lifted my baseball cap off my head, signaling JP to throw over to first base.  Sure enough, he caught the runner napping with a quick throw over and Wes put the tag on him for the second out of the inning.

Facing the tenth batter in the lineup, JP ran the count full before striking him out swinging.  Game over.  I was on the verge of bringing in the closer, Señor Smoke (Benton), but I was glad to see JP finish the game.

Game two was a bit of a laugher, as the boys beat their Creive Hall counterparts - the Dodgers - 14-4.  It was never close.  

The really cool thing and, frankly, the highlight of the day for me was how well Wes pitched.  I started him and he went three innings and, in truth, probably could have finished the game.

Wes is one of the Core Four, along with Jonathan, Benton, and JP - boys who have been with me from the very beginning, fall and spring for eight years.  That's hard to fathom, for me.  Really hard to fathom.  I've watched those boys grow up.  

Wes is a tall, quiet kid, but one with a wellspring of grit and determination.  He doesn't typically say a whole lot and he's pretty unemotional and even keeled, at least on the baseball field.  In truth, he's a lot like JP form a personality standpoint.  

Wes has been messing around with a knuckleball.  The boys said he was throwing in one of our last games of the spring/summer season but I didn't really believe them at the time.  

Then, at practice last week, I was warming up with Wes and he started throwing it.  To my surprise, he was able to take all of the spin off the baseball, though it wasn't really dancing of fluttering.  Still, for a 13 year old kid, it was pretty impressive.

Before our game against the Crieve Hall Dodgers on Saturday, I pulled the home plate umpire - Fernando - aside and told him Wes was likely to throw some knuckleballs.  With his baritone voice, he laughed loudly and shook his head.  "I'm serious," I continued.  "All right, all right," he said, shaking his head and smiling.

Sure enough, once the game started, Wes started throwing the knuckleball when he got ahead in the count.  And it was working!  If nothing else, it was an off speed pitch - one that acted like a changeup - and made his fastball look even faster.  Wes pitched the best I've ever seen him pitch, particularly in the first couple of innings.  

Before the last inning, I was talking to Fernando about Wes and the knuckleball.  "He's throwing it, all right," said Fernando.  "I told you," I replied.  

Laughing, Fernando said he could see the batters' knees buckling just a bit when Wes threw the knuckleball, not because it was moving but because it was coming in with no spin on it whatsoever.  The batters hadn't ever seen a pitch look like that and it confused them just enough to make it hard to hit.  

Wes didn't necessarily have much control over the knuckleball and I'm not sure he got any called strikes throwing it.  On one pitch, thought, Nico caught a knuckleball on the inside corner of home plate.  It was a strike, although Fernando paused, then called it a ball.  I could see him chuckling behind his umpire's mask, though, because he knew he has missed the call.  

The best part, though, was that when Wes threw a fastball immediately after a knuckleball, it looked to the batter like the pitch was coming in at 90 mph.  The contrast between the speeds of both pitches was intimidating.  

It was a good day for Wes.  Did I think when I started coaching him so many years ago that one Saturday, at age 13, he'd be throwing a knuckleball?  No.  

That's baseball.  And that's why I love these boys, every single one of them. 

   

Photographs and Memories

 Yesterday, I spent a few hours at my mom's house sorting through old photos, letters, cards, and mementos.  I even ventured into the attic - which is a disaster - as I near the end of my quest to salvage anything I want to keep.

I've said it before but it bears repeating - it's sad and in some ways heartbreaking that a person spends a lifetime accumulating so many things that are so special and personal to him or her - priceless, really - then he or she dies and so much of it ends up in a landfill somewhere.  

For example, my mom's shadowbox is laying in the floor in her guest room.  It's filled with knick-knacks - my name tag from my first job, at Walmart; Shakey's (my mom's first poodle) leash; a nurse's pin; a Vanderbilt basketball button; and on an on.  The shadowbox was on the wall in the den for years.  Every single item in it meant something to my mom.  

A singular event.  An accomplishment of one of her children.  A token of a friendship.  A loving reminder of a pet.  A graduation.  A gathering of friends.  An election.  Her unwavering loyalty to Vanderbilt basketball.  Her love, above all else, for her family.  Her faith.

It's all there.  Not just in the shadowbox, of course, but in the dwindling boxes of old photos, framed pictures, Christmas decorations, and keepsakes.  

Photographs and memories.  

I know it's time to let go of so many of this things because that's what they are - things.  Inanimate objects brought to life and made special by my mom's personality and what was important to her.  But it's hard.  Really, really hard. 

I am haunted by the fear of not looking in a box, a trunk, or an envelope, and losing forever a memory that meant something to my mom.   When I get down to it, I guess I am afraid of losing part of her.  Forever.  

My mom's very essence is in all of those old photographs, many of which I had never seen or did not recall seeing.  Photos of my mom and my dad, many with Tracy and me.  My parents were so young in those photos.  Photos of the two of them starting a life together full of promise and, yet, one sure to be cruelly cut short by my dad's death from hepatitis at age 30. 

I ran across a photo of my mom and dad on the day of their marriage, taken at her parents' house - Robert and Mary Alice Ussery - in Jackson, Tennessee.  A Jewish medical student, football player, and concert-level pianist from California, by way of Phoenix, Arizona and Cleveland, Ohio, marrying a modest Methodist, country girl from Jackson, Tennessee, the daughter of a man who drove a Wonder Bread truck for 30 years and of a woman who taught elementary school for 42 years.  

They looked so happy together.

It is a strange feeling, almost voyeuristic, to be going through boxes of things my mom saved.  Things that meant something to her.  Mementos from the Ussery family and the Dickson family, all of which will be lost forever if and when we discard so much of what she saved.  Our past.  Our family history.  Lost to the winds of time.

We are near the end of this process, I think.  This sifting through the things that meant the most to my mom but probably has the least actual value.  Somehow, those things are the most special to me.  I feel closer to my mom as I handle them, as I look intently at an old, black and white photograph, that no one has gazed upon in decades.  

I am, of course, reminded of how much I loved my mom and how much she loved me.  

I am also reminded, starkly, of how much I miss her.  Every single day.  

It is like an ache in my heart that never completely goes away.  I work, I coach baseball, I run, I raise children, I read, I eat, I sleep, I laugh, and I love.  In other words, I live my life.  

It is what I must do and what I am called to do.  And it is what my mom would want me to do.  

    

Running with the Kid

Saturday morning, JP and I got up early to go for a run.  Although it was a beautiful late summer morning, refreshingly not hot, I didn't feel great as we began our run up Linden Avenue toward Belmont Boulevard.  Maybe it was the two gin and tonics I had Friday night or the fact that I stayed up late reading the latest James Lee Burke novel but I just didn't feel right.

I needed to get five miles in, so we ran past Belmont U., up Portland Avenue, toward Fairfax and Elmington Park.  One of my regular routes.  The first mile was a struggle and our 8:30 + mile split reflected it.  

Gradually, though, as we ran through the neighborhood on Fairfax, past Eakin Elementary School, I began to feel better and we picked up the pace.  It was nice, as it always is, JP and I running side by side.  Not talking much, just running together.  Father and son, lost in our thoughts.  

As I always do when JP and I run together, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to be run with him.  To be able to share with him something that is so much a part of me.  So much a part of who I am.  I don't take any of my runs with JP for granted, not by a long shot.  Every run with JP is special, in large part because I know there is a finite number of them.  It's like a wave I'm going to ride as long as I can, appreciating ever moment I am on it.   

I wonder, sometimes, if it's akin to how my father felt when he took my flying in his Cessna 172 and, later, his Mooney airplane, in the late 60's when I was a toddler.  Then, as now, it was a father doing something he loved with his oldest son alongside.  I treasure those memories, even now.  Always have, in fact.  I hope when I am gone, JP will treasure these runs, too, and understand how meaningful they were to me.  

I began to push the pace as we ran through Elmington Park and up West End Avenue.  I felt strong, almost young again, as I do sometimes when I run.  I guess, to an extent, that's what I am doing when I run - chasing my youth.  Trying to turn back the hands of time or, maybe, to stop them, if only for a few minutes. 

As we passed the three mile mark and turned onto Blakemore, I began to sense we had something going, J.P. and I.  This might just be one of those runs I look for all year long and, if I am lucky, find five or ten of them.  A run where everything falls into place.  I feel good.  I feel strong, like I could run forever.  Nothing hurts.  My breathing is even.  

Runner's high.  The zone. Call it what you will but I think it's what ever runner looks for when he or she goes for a run.  Same shoes, same route, different feeling.  Way different.  

Losing ourselves in the run.  Surrendering to it.  It's a hard feeling to describe and it doesn't happen often.  But when it does?  Damn, it feels good.

I continued to push the pace as we turned right onto 21st Avenue and JP ran along beside me.  No talking.  Not breathing hard but putting the work in, our bodies like engines running smoothly.  His, the younger model, for sure.  Mine, the older model, but reasonably well maintained.  

The last mile - mile five - I pushed us harder.  I was fine but I could tell he was working, which was good.  We ran up an alley to Portland Avenue and made the turn onto Belmont Boulevard, running hard now.  I wanted to finish strong and we did.

We hit mile five right in front of the Trout Theater and stopped, breathing hard.  JP was spent.  I could have run more.  Soon enough, our roles will be reversed, I know.

Splits:

8:27, 8:10, 7:55, 7:28, and 7:03.

Negative splits, yes, but 7:03 on mile 5!  That's smoking!

7:46/mile and, for sure, a top ten run of the year.

Running with the Kid inspires me.  Every time.

The Day the Diamondbacks Became the Dodgers

This morning, just for a couple of hours, the Diamondbacks became the Dodgers.   

Because of Covid-19, I decided not to coach the Junior Dodgers last spring and this fall, too.  Joe's been blessed to be able to play for the Diamondbacks (aka as the Thundersharks, in fall baseball, anyway) and my friend, Oliver Davis.  I've been blessed to help Coach O, as I call him, at practices and by coaching third base during games.

A word or two about Coach O.  Having coached baseball for so many years and having been around so many baseball coached during that time, I know a good coach when I see one.  I think Coach O is one of the best - probably the best, actually - that I've seen.  Always a positive message and always upbeat.  Enthusiastic.  Organized.  Role model.  Leader.  Great communicator.  Even tempered.  Great sense of perspective.  Works the boys but always with a goal in mind.  Loves the boys, not just his son, Preston, but all of the boys.  Loves baseball.  Just a real treat to be around.  

It's funny but I've thought many times that Oliver would have fit in perfectly with my coaching staff on the Dodgers.  And that's saying something because my coaches are the best.

In truth, it's been nice to be able to work with the boys at practice and help Oliver as an assistant coach but not have all of the responsibilities of being the head coach.  No drafting and sending e-mails, no planning practicing, no setting lineups and batting orders, etc.  All of those things I have done for years with the Dodgers (and Junior Dodgers).  I must admit, it's nice to have someone else doing them for the Diamondbacks. 

This morning - Saturday - Coach O and Preston couldn't be at practice, so he asked if Ryan and I could run practice.  It's Labor Day Weekend and we weren't sure how many boys would be at practice.  I knew which ones would be there - the ones who love to play baseball.  And they were there, all nine of them.  Joe, Huck, Henry, Henry, John, Parkes, Westin, Luke (my new favorite), and Matthew.     

And, for me, it was like being on the field at Harpeth Hills with the Dodgers of old, four or five years ago. Benton, Wes, Brennan, J.P., Jonathan, Cyrus, Davis, Aidan, Cooper, and Braden.  Several of those boys I still coach on the Dodgers.  They're voices are starting cracking this summer or dropped several octaves below mine - see Braden and Porter - and they're playing on the Prep filed at Warner park.  Big league dimensions, with bases 90' feet apart and the pitching rubber 60'6" from home plate.  

Well, this morning, the Diamondbacks were the Dodgers from so long ago.  And, yes, I was me, four or five years ago.

Ryan was happy to let me take the wheel today, so to speak, and I led practice from beginning to end.  Coach O had asked that we have the boys take batting practice, live, against the pitching machine, which we did.  And also that we have the boys hit in game situations, which we also did.  

I don't know all of the dads who are helping coach by name but they're all good guys.  I think they recognize that I've done this before, though, so they defer to me a little bit.  Not because I'm any kind of expert - not at all - but because I've been there before and I'm not afraid to take charge.  Imagine me, taking charge.  

We had one dad working with one boy at a time, hitting off a tee in deep left field.  Another dad hit fungoes to the infield in between pitches.  Another dad worked one boy at a time with hitting stick.  Ryan ran the pitching machine and I coached whomever was hitting, working on stances, feet placement, swing, etc. 

I love the individual work with the boys.  The one-on-one stuff.  Throwing to them in the cage, playing catch with them, or working with them while they're hitting.  That's how I get to know them, to connect with them, to build the player-coach relationship with them.  That how I show them I care about them as boys, not just baseball players.  I give them nicknames - Luke became "the Punisher" today.  I make them laugh.  Most importantly, I let them know I believe in them.  I tell them - like I told Matthew, today - that their potential is unlimited if they'll keep working.  

It's what I love the most about coaching.  No doubt.

After everyone had hit today, I organized a game of the Dads against the 'Nads.  The boys batted in a game situation (5 pitches) and the dads played the infield.  That's how the boys bond with each other.  It's also how the dad bond with each other and begin to form friendships that, if all goes right, will last for years to come.  

After practice was over, I looked out on the field and four or five of the boys, on their own, had stayed afterwards to get in more work, throwing and fielding ground balls.  All of them working with their dads or big brothers.  

And I smiled to myself, as Joe gave me an impromptu hug afterwards.  Great practice.  The boys worked, learned, and most importantly, had fun.  

The Diamondbacks became the Dodgers, even if was just for a couple of hours on a random late summer Saturday morning.

And I loved every single minute of it.