The Last Days of the Dodgers

When it's over, I'll remember nights like tonight.  

7:30 p.m. practice on field #5 at Warner Park on a warm spring evening.  Lights on and baseball games starting on field #3 and #4 for the younger boys.  A line at the concession stand as parents pick up dinner for the family.  Little children running around in the grass between the baseball fields, laughing and squealing in the twilight.  

Slowly, my guys walk down to field #5, one by one.  J.P. show up first, then Harrison.  Turner, Ethan, and Winn next.  Riley.  Then, last but not least, Wes ambles down the slight hill and into the dugout.  The Big Cat, still my tallest boy, but now, at 13 years old, with a little teenage acne on his fact.  My guys, every one of them.  

Chris - the mayor of Warner Park - stands by the fence talking with someone he knows.  Tom - along with his son, Riley, a refugee from the Dirtbags, disbanded but once the Dodgers biggest rival - getting loose because he knows I'll ask him to throw batting practice.

Without me asking them to, the boys walk out to left field, pair off, and start throwing with each other.  The boys talking and laughing.  The ritual of getting loose.  Something they've done before practices and games a thousand times.  

Chris hits infield and Tom catches in.  Riley and Harrison at third base, J.P. and Winn at shortstop, Turner and Ethan ("Easy E") at second base, and Wes at first base.  J.P. and Winn looking very smooth, effortlessly and confidently fielding almost all of the ground balls hit their way and whipping the ball to Wes at first base.  Lots of chatter with the boys giving each other grief after a missed ground ball.  Especially Winn, always the loudest.  And Ethan, always the funniest.   

Situational work, as I call out the situations.  "Runners on first and second, one out," etc.  Chris hitting ground balls and the boys making the plays.  So many nights like this, so much talking, so much teaching and now, I'm watching the finished product.  Still lots of work to do but the boys know what they're doing for the most part.  

Tom throws batting practice in the cage while Chris plays a game with the boys taking turns at third base.  He short hops balls to them - and me - and we count who catches the most in a row.  Winn is good, as is Turner, surprisingly.  Turner's hand eye coordination is outstanding, which is likely why at 13, he's already an accomplished golfer.  

Finally, Chris hits the boys fly balls in left field.  After 15 minutes or so, the boys trot in and pick up the balls in the infield.  

"Four balls," I say, as I set the bucket of balls on the third baseline and walk toward home plate.  The boys scramble to follow me, as we get ready to play a game I invented, and one I've played with them so many times at the end of practice.  

I go first and foolishly turn down Winn's offer to bet me $10 I won't toss two balls in the bucket.  Of course, I hit my last two as the boys groan.  Going second to last Wes surprisingly hits two to tie me.  We line up for the tiebreaker and I toss three of four balls in the bucket.  Game over.  

"Don't ever bet me in this game," I say.  "I will take all of your money."  

We pick up the gear, say goodbye, and walk to the parking lot a little after 9 p.m.

I drive home with Winn, Harrison, and J.P., talking about MBA and how school is going.  I drop the other boys off, get home with J.P., and we unload my truck.

I know, I really know, these times and these nights with my guys are fleeting and likely coming to an end.  I treasure every single moment I have with them.  

Through bad days at work; my mom's dementia, Alzheimer's disease and her death; through good times and bad, these boys have been there for me, on the baseball field.  I can never repay them for the joy they have brought me over the last 8 years.  

We're the WNSL Dodgers and I'm their coach.  

I'll always be their coach.  

   

Johnny Mustache

I laughed all weekend at JP's latest obsession - his mustache.  It's all he talks about.  For a while now, he's had few whispy, dark hairs on the very corners of his upper lip.  I've ignored them and after Jude kidded him about it one day, I suggested to her to leave it alone because he might well be a little sensitive about it.  I think a couple of friends at school had remarked about it, too, and I wasn't quite sure how JP was taking it.  

Sure enough, because it's the way of things, a fine line of dark hair has been appearing above JP's top lip, seemingly a little more each day.  One day, it's still the outside edge of winter.  The grass is dead.  No maintenance needed.  Another day, you walk outside and, suddenly or so it seems, the grass is turning green, growing, and needs to be cut because the yard looks shaggy.

Well, that's where we are with JP, or so it seems.

Over the weekend, if he asked me once, he asked me 30 times, "Dad, can you see my mustache?"  I leaned in close, took a long look, paused, then pronounced, "Nope!  Nothing there."  He protested and, of course, Joe, always in on the act and on JP's side, protested even louder.  

"Wait a minute," I said.  "Let me get my reading glasses."

 I made a show of putting my reading glasses on and leaning in even closer this time.  I gave it a long look the straightened up and paused dramatically.  "It's dirt," I said.  "Just wash your face better at night."  Then I burst out laughing.

"DAD!!"  

I have no recollection of shaving for the first time, although I recall it was with an electric razor that my mom bought for me.  I'm thinking I was in 9th or 10th grade but I'm not sure how old I was.  I am certain, though, I was older than 13, JP's age.

I've always had a reasonably heavy beard and mustache, though, so it's not surprising that JP apparently does, too.  I just never imagined him having to shave until high school.  Still, here we are and there's no denying it.

For so long - forever, it seems - our roles have been so clearly defined.  Father.  Son.  Man.  Boy.  

I'm strong.  Infallible.  Impervious to all misfortune.  Bigger, stronger, faster.  

Time passes, and the gap between father and son begins to close.  Slowly at first, then more quickly until I can almost feel it - tangibly - closing each day.  The boy - my boy - grows ever closer to becoming a man.  

Now, we run together, like we did on Sunday.  As equals.  As father and son, yes, but also as two individuals.  

And now, it's time for JP to start shaving.  

He's become Johnny Mustache, bother of Joey Mustache, a character in the bedtime stories I used to tell Joe at night.

Time marches on and one day, soon, JP will be a man and I will lean on him for strength and balance as we walk together through life.  And I will remember these days forever, these days I've written about in this space over the last 13 years of my life.

    

 

   

  

Another Lion Leaves

Today, I traveled to Knoxville to attend the memorial service for Steve Cox, hands down the most important mentor in my professional life.  Steve died on March 3, 2021, a little more than a month ago, at age 77.  It meant a lot to me to be there, today, to hug Steve's wife, Jeanette, and pay my respects to the man who taught me how to practice law.

I've often said, half jokingly, that the only reason I was offered a job as a summer clerk and later, as a lawyer, at Manier, Herod is because I was (and am) a softball pitcher.  

When Jay Stapp interviewed me on campus in Knoxville, in 1992, during my second year in law school, his eyes lit up when I told him I played softball and that I pitched.  Why?  Because softball - the Nashville Bar Association softball league, specifically - was big at Manier, Herod and huge with Steve Cox, who was a member of the firm's executive committee and the partner who ran the litigation department.  Jay had pitched for several years but was leaving the law firm and he knew, I think, that Steve would be pleased that he had found his replacement.

I clerked for Manier, Herod in the summer of 1992, played softball for the firm team, and got an offer to join the firm the following year when I graduated in May 1993.  I have no doubt, none at all, that Steve Cox insisted the firm hire me and, of course, they did.  I stayed in Knoxville that summer and sat for the bar exam in late July, then started my job at Manier, Herod in August 1993.  Later, in October, I got my bar results - I passed - and my legal career began in earnest.  

For almost a year, I did workers' compensation defense work for another partner in the firm.  He and I weren't the best fit and at Steve Cox's request, I moved into the general litigation department and worked directly for him doing insurance defense work.  The lawyers in Steve's group were tight - Steve, Mark Levan, Paul Sprader, and Benton Patton.  Steve looked out for us, stuck together as a group, and, as I think about it now, kind of had our own thing in a firm of 45 or so lawyers.

Steve was an incredibly gifted trial lawyer.  Although he worked almost exclusively as an insurance defense lawyer, for a long time he had the distinction of winning the largest jury verdict for a plaintiff in personal injury case in Williamson County history at more than three million dollars.  A lawyer I worked with watched Steve's closing argument in that case and was awestruck.  

Steve had an innate ability to connect with the jury on a very personal level.  He always said, modestly, that he just told juries the truth.  It was a lot more than that, however.  Steve had a great sense of humor.  He made you feel comfortable in is presence.  He was able to break a case down - simplify it - in a way that his position made sense and was easy to understand.  Steve wasn't handsome, far from it.  He didn't dazzle a jury with his presentation.  To me, he was everyman, and the jury related to that.  He was one of them.

Steve and I had a lot in common.  We both loved University of Tennessee football and basketball.  So many times, I sat in his office as we dissected the football game the previous Saturday or the latest recruiting news.  This, of course, was in the pre-internet days, so we always kept each other up to date on anything we had learned from a source, however unreliable, about football recruiting.

We were both stubborn to a fault.  We were both incredibly strong willed, as a result of which we butted heads sometimes.  I think Steve wanted his trial lawyers to be confident, though, and sure of themselves, so he always gave me some latitude and let me say my piece or voice my opinion, even when I didn't know what the hell I was talking about.  

Steve and I both loved to have fun.  I can still hear his laugh - a cackle, really, is the only way to describe it.  I'll always be able to hear that laugh.  

At two low points in my life, Steve was there for me.  When Ann and were getting divorced, Steve was the first person at work that I told about it.  When I walked into his office to tell him, he looked up with a smile, saw my face, and said, "close the door and tell me what's going on."  

As I sat down, he pulled out a cigarette - Pall Mall unfiltered, as I recall - lit it and leaned back in his chair and listened as I poured my heart out.  He told me things were going to be okay.  He told me who, in the office, I needed to tell first.  Quite simply, he was there for me at my lowest point, and for that I'll be eternally grateful.  His advice, his words of wisdom, were spot on and, of course, he was right.  I was okay.

The Sunday afternoon when I pitched Manier, Herod to its first Nashville Bar Association softball tournament title is memory I'll always cherish.  We sent Steve onto the field to get the trophy.  As he turned to us and held it up, he had tears in his eyes.  He was so competitive, just like Benton Patton and me, and winning that damn softball tournament meant everything to him.  Winning the softball tournament and making Steve proud meant everything to us.  Steve saved that 1st place trophy, and several others that we won in later years, and kept them in his office.

When I told Steve I was leaving Manier, Herod to start my own law firm in Franklin, in 1998, he was disappointed, but completely supportive of me.  I always appreciate that, of course.  Later, he mediated for me on occasion, whenever I had a personal injury case.  He always laughed and shook his head when I told him about all of the divorce work I was doing.  

After Steve retired and moved to Knoxville, we lost touch with each other.  I regret, deeply, that I didn't do a better job staying in contact with him the last few years.  I wish like hell I would have called him monthly just to tell him my latest crazy story from my practice, or about our office, or just to talk Tennessee football or basketball.  

We had a lot of good times at Manier, Herod in the '90's and almost all of them involved Steve.  In many ways, he was the heart and soul of the firm, or at least of the 21st floor in the Dominion Bank/First Union Bank building, where all of the litigators worked.  The first five years of a lawyer's professional life are the most memorable, I think.  After that, they kind of run together.  

I remember my years at Manier, Herod, and my time with Steve Cox, like they were yesterday.

Rest in peace, Steve.  I'll never forget you. 

        

Joe Takes the Mound

Monday night, Joe made his long awaited and much anticipated - by him, anyway, pitching debut.

Last season, in WNSL's Rookie League (aka "machine pitch"), the boys hit off a spring loaded machine.  All season, Joe was chomping at the bit to pitch, saying over and over again, "I can't wait for kid pitch baseball!"  

This season, my friend, Oliver Davis, and I decided to some of the boys up to the Minor League (aka "kid pitch").  Joe had to move up, because he was nine years old.  Oliver's son, Preston, and some of the others could have played another season of machine pitch baseball but, in truth, there wasn't much to be learned at that level and the boys were ready to see a pitched ball in games.  

It's worked out great - and this is an entirely different story - because our Diamondbacks' team has six of my old Junior Dodgers.  It's been great, so great, to be back out on the field with Trey, Bennett, Nico, George, Ram, and, of course, Joe.  Combined with our Diamondbacks' boys, it's a special group of boys and families.  I'm looking forward to the next several years together if all goes according to plan, as I hope it will.

I had a trial starting Monday and our game was set for 5:15 p.m., so I was worried about getting there and on the field quickly enough to watch Joe pitch.  At the beginning of my trial, I asked the judge if we could finish early, since we were set for two days, anyway, so I could get to the baseball game.  Mike Binkley, a family man and a lawyers' judge for sure, was kind enough to accommodate me, which really meant a lot.    

I got to the game just after Joe's Diamondbacks had batted in the first inning.  Batting in the three hole, Joe walked and later scored.  Trey pitched the first inning and did surprisingly well.  

While our boys were batting in the top of the second inning, J.P. and Joe walked down the right field foul line, so J.P. could warm Joe up.  That, in an of itself, was a cool moment.  Joe throwing to J.P. before his (Joe's) big moment.

What's also cool is that J.P. has been working with Joe every afternoon, practicing his pitching.  I got them out in the backyard one day, showed J.P. what I wanted, and he quite literally took it from there.  There's a singularity to  watching J.P. sitting on the bucket of balls in the backyard, wearing the catcher's mitt, quietly encouraging Joe as he throws pitch after pitch to him.  To me, it encapsulates everything I want their relationship to be, as brothers.  

It's a closeness, a commonality.  A shared love of competition, a desire to get better, and a love of baseball.  I could watch them together like that forever.  

So, Joe walks out to the pitcher's mound on field #3 at Warner Park to start the bottom of the second inning.  I was curious - not nervous - to see how he would do.  There's no fear in Joe, not ever in any situation.  He's got a lack of self-awareness and he's a natural leader with the charisma that makes other kids want to follow him.  I'm not sure you can teach that or instill that in a boy.  I think, perhaps, he has it or he doesn't it. 

Joe was ready.  

How did he do?  10 pitches, 9 strikes, 3 strikeouts.  And the one ball was really a strike, because the umpire squeezed him just a bit on a pitch that hit the outside corner of home plate.  He looked comfortable, in control, and in command.  I was really, really proud of him, mostly because he's worked pretty hard at it and, as always hard work pays off.

After the third strikeout, Joe trotted excitedly off the mound to the first base dugout, where Oliver was waiting to address the team.  Joe was grinning from ear to ear.  

A pitcher always walks to the dugout when he punches a guy out to end the inning, of course.  He doesn't trot, but we'll work on that.  It's more intimidating to walk slowly off the mound.  J.P. has mastered the slow walk to the dugout, hat pulled down low, after striking out the last batter of the inning.    

I walked over to the backstop and motioned J.P. to come talk to me.  He got up, walked over, and we were face to face on opposite sides of the backstop.  I started to talk, my voice caught for just a moment as I teared up, and I turned away for a second.  

Collecting myself, I turned back to him, and said, "what your brother just did was all you, not me.  Remember this moment."

J.P. walked over to the dugout and congratulated Joe.  I turned away and looked out at the baseball field as our boys - the Diamondbacks - prepared to bat.

I was happy, content, and really, really proud.  Of both of my sons.