A rainy Friday night. I just managed to slip in a 6 mile late night run while the rain briefly stopped. Running between the raindrops, I call it. Now, a busy week at an end, I have few moments to sip a glass of Bardstown bourbon and reflect.
I've been reflecting a lot lately, mostly about the Dodgers. As the fall baseball season winds down, I'm savoring every last minute I get to spend on the baseball field with these boys - my boys - whom I've coached for so many years. They mean so much to me. I love every one of them.
I worry, sometimes, what I will do and how I will view myself after the Dodgers have played their last game together. For the past seven or eight years, so much of who I am has been wrapped up in coaching fall and spring baseball. Coaching the Dodgers. It's been a huge part of who I am and something with which I've happily occupied a tremendous amount of time. And I've loved - literally - every single minute of it.
The game last night was a memorable one, a 10-3 win over the "Country Braves," aptly named by who else but Winn Hughes a few years back. Several boys with long hair, a second baseman with a beard, and nice, albeit "country" fans. Ergo, the "Country Braves."
I hustled over to field no. 5 from Joe's game on field no. 2 after an exciting 20-16 win for Joe's Thundersharks. The Dodgers were batting in the third inning, up 3-2. As I walked up, the boys were bit down after kicking the ball around and giving up a couple of runs in the previous inning.
J.P. had just replaced Wes Taylor at pitcher. As I settled in, sitting on my bucket of balls, J.P. struggled early, walking the first two batters he faced. I think he gave up a run, too. His body language was terrible and he had no energy, so I called time out and walked out to the pitcher's mound from the first base dugout.
"I'm not upset with the walks," I told him. "But I'm bothered by your body language and lack of energy. Lead these guys and have fun out here," I said. "Smile."
He was kind of pissed at me but he knew I was right. He struck out the next batter, puffed out his chest, and started pitching with more confidence. And, of course, he was completely fine and sailed through the rest of the game without giving up a run.
Both times I watched him bat, J.P. hit the ball well. The first time, he hit a line drive single to right field. The next time up, he smoked a ball to the gap in right center for a double. It was at the hardest hit ball I saw all night. J.P. has worked so hard all summer and fall, hitting off the tee. I'm happy for him to see the results of the hard work.
Watching J.P. play well, up close, was fun. What was as much or more fun, though, was hanging out with all of the boys during the game. Maybe because I know there's a chance our time together is limited, I treasure and appreciate every minute on the baseball field with them. Every interaction with each one of them is special.
In a way, I think I'm trying to have a meaningful interaction of some sort with every boy these last few games, so I can file a memory away about each of them. So, when I'm older and they're older, and the Dodgers are no more, I can summon up a memory or two or ten to make me smile and warm my heart.
After I addressed the team after the game behind the bleachers, I gathered up my gear. As I was walking toward the parking lot, one of the "County Braves" fathers, sitting in a camping chair with a ZZ Top beard that reached his waste, stopped me.
"Every one of your boys can hit, coach," he said.
"Thank you, sir," I replied. And I walked to my truck, smiling the whole way.
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