(This is a post I originally wrote on June 7, 2016, but couldn't get it formatted properly. I'm editing it today, almost a month later).
Muhammad Ali, the greatest of all time, died Friday night.
I've spend the past few days on a deep dive, reading a lot of old pieces about Ali from venerated writers - many of whom are no longer with us - life Mark Kram and Dick Schaap. As a fan of great writing, especially great sports writing, it's been pretty special to read so much about the most iconic sports figure of my lifetime.
Over the weekend, I was having a cup of coffee at Bongo Java and I asked Megan, one of my favorite baristas, what she knew about Muhammad Ali. Megan, how is 21 years old and very bright, looked puzzled for a moment, then assumed a goofy looking fighter's stance and said, "Isn't he a, you know . . . . ?" "A boxer," I replied. "Yes!" she said, as her eyes lit up in recognition. Sigh.
Realizing that was the extent of her knowledge, I gave Megan a homework assignment. "Read the obituary in the New York Times, written by Robert Lipsyte," I said. Continuing, I added, "Muhammad Ali was much more than a boxer, Megan."
And he was.
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/04/sports/muhammad-ali-dies.html
This is not a post about Muhammad Ali, although it probably should be.
My conversation with Megan got me thinking about how important it is for me to expose my sons to historical figures that made a lasting impact on society, especially in my lifetime. I take for granted that smart, seemingly inquisitive young people like Megan (and J.P. and Joe) will take it upon themselves to learn about people like Muhammad Ali or that they will be curious enough about them when they die to read about them. But that's just not the case.
We live, today, in the age of instant gratification. Attention spans - especially those of children - are so short that few people take the time to learn about anyone that lived or anything that happened more than a few years ago, if that long. It's a paradox to me, because children, teens and young people today have so much information literally at their fingertips. And yet, it seems to me like they use technology to text emoji's to each other as opposed to using it to actually learn a about people or events that impacted the world.
Does that make me the "Hey! Get off my lawn!" guy? Probably, but as I approach 50 years of age, I'm probably entitled to be that guy from time to time.
What I want is for my boys to have an appreciation for history and for historical figures. And it's cook, because they do. J.P. loves to read about Jackie Robinson and Rosa Parks. Recently, I got him a book about Satchel Paige, which he devoured. And more than once, I've seen him sitting by himself in the reading chair in our living room, perusing the issue of ESPN: The Magazine devoted to Muhammad Ali.
The Sunday morning after he died, J.P. and I watched a couple of YouTube videos about Muhammad Ali, just I could let him see him in action, in his prime. J.P. marveled at how fast Ali punched and how gracefully he moved. It was poetry in motion, for sure. In truth, I had forgotten what an amazing athlete Muhammad Ali was in his youth, before he was stripped of his titles and prohibited from boxing for 3 1/2 years. He wasn't the same boxer when he came back, although he won world titles and achieve worldwide acclaim after his return.
Ali Bomaye.
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Dodgers' Denouement (2016)
JP's Dodgers finished the regular season 11-2-1, losing 2 games to and tying 1 against "the Evil Empire," the Braves. In the end of season tournament, the Dodgers beat the good Braves, lost big to the bad Braves and beat the good Braves again in the losers' bracket finals. Then, in a winner-take-all grudge match against the bad Braves, the Dodgers lost in extra innings.
Final tally for the 2016 spring season? 13-4-1. Not too shabby for the boys. Sadly, Davis Joyner and Brennan Ayres and their families are moving, so I won't have them back on the team in the future. It's tough for me because I've coached almost all of these boys since they were 4 or 5 years old, in fall and spring, and I love them.
Although I was on the fence initially, I decided to reach out to my assistant coaches and, later, the other parents, to see if they were interested in having their sons play "All-Star" baseball. My thought - and what we ultimately agreed to do - was for us to take our team, the Dodgers, and play in 3 tournaments in June. Like so many things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Whether it ended up being a good idea, well, that's probably up for debate.
First off, it was a bit of a challenge to field a roster for the first All-Star tournament, hosted by GAC (Grassland). Davis already had moved, a few of my players were on vacation and a couple didn't want to commit to playing in all 3 tournaments. I ended up adding 3 or 4 extra players and had a total of 15 players on the Dodgers' All-Star roster. And, really, it was a scramble the entire time to come up with enough players for each game. In some ways, that in and of itself tells me something about whether playing All-Star baseball was a good idea.
In the Grassland tournament, we got gonged by Bellevue, lost to Grassland (6-2) and lost to Hendersonville (9-4). Not too bad, really, except that that might have been the high point of our postseason play. The highlight of the Grassland tournament was when Cooper, playing right field, caught a fly ball to end the inning. Big, big moment, particularly since a few moments earlier he was crying after missing a ball that he really had no chance to catch.
Next up, the second weekend of June - the WNSL tournament (at Bellevue, no less) and Bonnaroo. For the life of me, I cannot recall playing Thursday night, although I skipped Bonnaroo that day to coach in the game. Friday, I went to Bonnaroo and skipped the Dodgers' game. The boys got gonged, although forget by whom. Saturday, I decided (after much internal debate) to go to Bonnaroo late, after the game.
The Dodgers played SW Nashville (Spring Hill) and were leading 6-5 going into the top of the 6th inning. The umpire blew a call when Aidan properly froze the runner at third base, the runner at first base took off and all hell broke loose. The boys fell apart and gave up 6-7 runs. In the bottom of the 7th inning, our first two batters struck, then Henry got a base hit and JP absolutely crushed a ball, sending it up the middle and to the fence. Henry was on second base and JP on first base when Benton hit ball up the middle, as well. Henry scored, but JP took too big of a turn at second base. The outfielder threw behind JP and the second baseman tagged him out as he dove back into the bag.
JP was devastated, to say the least, because he felt like he had let the team down. He tried to say that "Coach Chris" (coaching third base) had "sent him," which wasn't true. He and I tried to work through it in the dugout, but he was too upset to be reasoned with. I decided not to go to Bonnaroo, but Jude convinced me when I got home that I should go. So I did.
Last weekend, our final tournament, the District tournament was held at the WNSL fields at Edwin Warner Parks. On Thursday night, the Dodgers played the Franklin Generals and got gonged 16-1 when Franklin scored 12 runs in bottom of the 3rd inning. It was a helpless feeling to watch the boys fall apart, hit after hit, as Franklin's players rounded the bases. JP kicked a ball at second base that allowed the 16th run to score, which ended the game. When I met with the boys in right field after the game, I told them to forget about it. They were down, though, and seemed to be shell shocked as I talked to them.
Friday was a tough day for me, as I struggled with the idea that maybe I had gotten the boys in over their heads given that most of the teams they were facing were true All-Star teams - the best players from all of the teams in a particular league (Hendersonville, Grassland, etc.) - while our team was simply our regular season team with a couple additional players (not an All-Star team). I had a hard time getting out of my mind the long faces that had stared back at me the night before when I talked to the boys after the game.
Saturday morning, the boys player better against a good Hendersonville team and lost 9-2. That afternoon, disaster struck, though, as Crieve Hall gonged the Dodgers, 30-3. Without question, that was the low point for me. After the game, one of my assistant coaches and close friends made a passive-egressive comments after the game about where his son was batting in the batting order and I almost lost it. I pulled him aside, pulled no punches in telling him what I thought about the time and nature of his comments, then headed home.
That left one game to be played - Sunday - in the consolation bracket against our league rival, the Braves. I briefly thought about forfeiting the game, mostly because I thought it might literally break them if they lost big, and because I knew we would only have 9 players. Chad, one of my assistant coaches, suggested it would be worse for the boys to end the season on such a sour note, after a 30-3 loss, and he was right. So, it was on to Sunday for the season finale.
Surprisingly - or maybe not surprisingly, I don't know - the Dodgers jumped out to an early lead, 4-1, then 6-1. For the first time since the end of the regular season, the boys hit the baseball. Slowly, though, the Braves chipped away at the lead, and after we batted in the top of the 6th inning, the Dodgers led 11-10. A lot of these games turn on where in the lineup a team is toward the end of the game and I knew we were in trouble, because the Braves had their 2-3-4 hitters coming up. Sure enough, they got a couple of hits, had runners on second and third base, then their cleanup hitter knocked them both in with a single.
Just like that, the Dodgers season was over.
My voice caught and I had tears in my eyes as I knelt down a final time in left field and addressed my boys. I told them I was more proud of them, that day, than of any team I had ever coached before. And I was. The 9 boys that I had that day - Father's Day - Porter, Brandon, Brennan, Benton, J.P., Aidan, Cyrus, Jonathan and Ellis gave me everything they had and then some. I could not have gotten a greater Father's Day gift then the effort they game me in trying to beat their rivals. Although they lost 12-11, they won in life that afternoon on a baseball field at Edwin Warner Park.
Final tally for the 2016 spring season? 13-4-1. Not too shabby for the boys. Sadly, Davis Joyner and Brennan Ayres and their families are moving, so I won't have them back on the team in the future. It's tough for me because I've coached almost all of these boys since they were 4 or 5 years old, in fall and spring, and I love them.
Although I was on the fence initially, I decided to reach out to my assistant coaches and, later, the other parents, to see if they were interested in having their sons play "All-Star" baseball. My thought - and what we ultimately agreed to do - was for us to take our team, the Dodgers, and play in 3 tournaments in June. Like so many things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Whether it ended up being a good idea, well, that's probably up for debate.
First off, it was a bit of a challenge to field a roster for the first All-Star tournament, hosted by GAC (Grassland). Davis already had moved, a few of my players were on vacation and a couple didn't want to commit to playing in all 3 tournaments. I ended up adding 3 or 4 extra players and had a total of 15 players on the Dodgers' All-Star roster. And, really, it was a scramble the entire time to come up with enough players for each game. In some ways, that in and of itself tells me something about whether playing All-Star baseball was a good idea.
In the Grassland tournament, we got gonged by Bellevue, lost to Grassland (6-2) and lost to Hendersonville (9-4). Not too bad, really, except that that might have been the high point of our postseason play. The highlight of the Grassland tournament was when Cooper, playing right field, caught a fly ball to end the inning. Big, big moment, particularly since a few moments earlier he was crying after missing a ball that he really had no chance to catch.
Next up, the second weekend of June - the WNSL tournament (at Bellevue, no less) and Bonnaroo. For the life of me, I cannot recall playing Thursday night, although I skipped Bonnaroo that day to coach in the game. Friday, I went to Bonnaroo and skipped the Dodgers' game. The boys got gonged, although forget by whom. Saturday, I decided (after much internal debate) to go to Bonnaroo late, after the game.
The Dodgers played SW Nashville (Spring Hill) and were leading 6-5 going into the top of the 6th inning. The umpire blew a call when Aidan properly froze the runner at third base, the runner at first base took off and all hell broke loose. The boys fell apart and gave up 6-7 runs. In the bottom of the 7th inning, our first two batters struck, then Henry got a base hit and JP absolutely crushed a ball, sending it up the middle and to the fence. Henry was on second base and JP on first base when Benton hit ball up the middle, as well. Henry scored, but JP took too big of a turn at second base. The outfielder threw behind JP and the second baseman tagged him out as he dove back into the bag.
JP was devastated, to say the least, because he felt like he had let the team down. He tried to say that "Coach Chris" (coaching third base) had "sent him," which wasn't true. He and I tried to work through it in the dugout, but he was too upset to be reasoned with. I decided not to go to Bonnaroo, but Jude convinced me when I got home that I should go. So I did.
Last weekend, our final tournament, the District tournament was held at the WNSL fields at Edwin Warner Parks. On Thursday night, the Dodgers played the Franklin Generals and got gonged 16-1 when Franklin scored 12 runs in bottom of the 3rd inning. It was a helpless feeling to watch the boys fall apart, hit after hit, as Franklin's players rounded the bases. JP kicked a ball at second base that allowed the 16th run to score, which ended the game. When I met with the boys in right field after the game, I told them to forget about it. They were down, though, and seemed to be shell shocked as I talked to them.
Friday was a tough day for me, as I struggled with the idea that maybe I had gotten the boys in over their heads given that most of the teams they were facing were true All-Star teams - the best players from all of the teams in a particular league (Hendersonville, Grassland, etc.) - while our team was simply our regular season team with a couple additional players (not an All-Star team). I had a hard time getting out of my mind the long faces that had stared back at me the night before when I talked to the boys after the game.
Saturday morning, the boys player better against a good Hendersonville team and lost 9-2. That afternoon, disaster struck, though, as Crieve Hall gonged the Dodgers, 30-3. Without question, that was the low point for me. After the game, one of my assistant coaches and close friends made a passive-egressive comments after the game about where his son was batting in the batting order and I almost lost it. I pulled him aside, pulled no punches in telling him what I thought about the time and nature of his comments, then headed home.
That left one game to be played - Sunday - in the consolation bracket against our league rival, the Braves. I briefly thought about forfeiting the game, mostly because I thought it might literally break them if they lost big, and because I knew we would only have 9 players. Chad, one of my assistant coaches, suggested it would be worse for the boys to end the season on such a sour note, after a 30-3 loss, and he was right. So, it was on to Sunday for the season finale.
Surprisingly - or maybe not surprisingly, I don't know - the Dodgers jumped out to an early lead, 4-1, then 6-1. For the first time since the end of the regular season, the boys hit the baseball. Slowly, though, the Braves chipped away at the lead, and after we batted in the top of the 6th inning, the Dodgers led 11-10. A lot of these games turn on where in the lineup a team is toward the end of the game and I knew we were in trouble, because the Braves had their 2-3-4 hitters coming up. Sure enough, they got a couple of hits, had runners on second and third base, then their cleanup hitter knocked them both in with a single.
Just like that, the Dodgers season was over.
My voice caught and I had tears in my eyes as I knelt down a final time in left field and addressed my boys. I told them I was more proud of them, that day, than of any team I had ever coached before. And I was. The 9 boys that I had that day - Father's Day - Porter, Brandon, Brennan, Benton, J.P., Aidan, Cyrus, Jonathan and Ellis gave me everything they had and then some. I could not have gotten a greater Father's Day gift then the effort they game me in trying to beat their rivals. Although they lost 12-11, they won in life that afternoon on a baseball field at Edwin Warner Park.
_________________________________
Should the Dodgers have played tournament baseball this year? Should we have had an All-Star team?
I don't know. I'm still a little torn about that. The easy answer, I think, is no. We could have taken a few weeks off and basked in the glory of a successful regular season where the boys weren't challenged in several games. The boys could have taken some time off before summer basketball.
The easy road is not always the best road to take, though. In fact, the challenging road, I think, is more rewarding and memorable in the long run. Certainly, the boys were challenged. They didn't win a game in three tournaments, but they practiced a lot and played against high caliber competition. And I saw improvement, across the board, from each and every one of them.
In the end, I realized that maybe it's not that complicated.
The day after the last game, I asked J.P. if he was glad the Dodgers played in "All-Stars?"
"Sure, dad. I'm glad we played," he replied.
"Why?" I asked.
He looked at my quizzically, like the answer was obvious.
"Because it was more baseball," J.P. said.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Sometimes a Tie Hurts Worse Than a Loss
Monday after work, the Dodgers played their arch rival, the Braves. The kids on both teams know each other and the Braves are coached by my friend, Pat L. A couple of Pat's players, including his son, play basketball with our boys in the fall and winter leagues. It's a definite rivalry for the boys.
Going into the game, J.P. and the Dodgers were 11-2. Their only losses had come at the hands of the Braves. Most recently, the Braves shut them out, 12-0, in what was by far the Dodgers' worst performance of the season. In my view, that game was indicative of the fact that the boys are slightly intimidated by the Braves and beat themselves before the game begins.
Early on Monday evening, it looked like it would be more of the same. The Dodgers went down 1-2-3 in the top of the first inning, then kicked the ball around the infield in the bottom of the first. After two innings, the Braves were on top 5-0 and even I was feeling a little discouraged. In the third inning, the Dodgers pushed across a couple of runs to make it 5-2, but things still weren't looking promising. Their defense had definitely improved, though.
Suddenly, in the to of the fourth inning, the Dodgers erupted for six runs. The highlight of the inning occurred when Wes T. hit a triple to right field that turned into a home run, when the ball got away from an infielder and I sent him scampering home. From my vantage point coaching third base, I looked into our dugout on the first base side of the infield. As Wes trotted in, the boys were screaming and yelling, hugging each other. They pounded Wes on the back and chest bumped him as he smiled bemusedly. That's just Wes.
The lowlight of the same inning was when one of our players - Aidan - was hit with the baseball square in the ribs off a relay throw as he hustled into third base with a legitimate triple. As Aidan rolled around on the ground crying, clutching his side, Pat yelled in from his coaches' spot in the field, "Tag him! Tag him!" Pissed, I yelled back, "Pat, you're the only coach in the league who would yell 'tag him!' when a player is on the ground injured."
By the end of the inning, the Dodgers had taken an 8-5 lead and the boys were jacked. In the bottom of the fourth inning, I had J.P. at second base, Aidan at pitcher, Benton at first base, Henry at catcher, Cooper at third base and Wes at catcher. My strongest infield or close to it, I figured. With two outs and runners on first and second, the batter hit a shot to third base. Cooper ranged to his left, fielded the ball cleanly and scampered back to step on third base for the third out of the inning. I looked at Cooper's dad (and my good friend), Russ, leaning over the fence on the third base line. He was proud and damn, I was, too.
I trotted across the infield and told the boys to listen up as I addressed them through the dugout fence. "Listen up," I said. "You're beating your friends' team by 3 runs in the last game of the season and you get to bat one more time! Let's get a couple of runs and finish these guys off!" George C. Patton I'm not, but the boys erupted in cheers. I walked back out to coach third base.
The first two players made outs, then Cyrus stepped in to hit. A little about my guy, Cyrus. He's the youngest player on the team at 7 years of age. He's also the quietest boy on the team, by far. He's also the most athletic, for my money, but he doesn't know it yet. His father, Isaac, played Division 1 basketball and Cyrus clearly inherited his natural athletic ability. Cyrus is also one of my all-time favorite boys.
Cyrus, a lefty who normally hits the ball the opposite way but not with authority, took a couple of practice swings, then leaned back in the box, ready to hit. He swung at the first pitch he saw and absolutely crushed the baseball. I mean, it actually sounded different coming off his red bat (which, by the way, is almost as big as Cyrus is). The ball sailed between the right and right center fielders, over their heads and rolled to the fence. Cyrus motored into the third base with a stand up triple. And the crowd went wild, as they say. I turned around, stunned, and looked at Isaac and Russ, and they were high fiving each other. I think I even got a little smile out of Cyrus when I slapped him on the helmet.
Davis got a single, knocked Cyrus in and the Dodgers were up 9-3 headed into the bottom of the fifth and last inning. I decided to play the infield the same as in the fourth inning. Why mess up a good thing?
As the inning was about to start and I stood in the first base dugout with my friends and fellow coaches, Randy and Will, I looked at them and said, "I know this won't sound right, but I want our boys to beat those bastards and go to school for the next week and a half (until school is out) with their chests puffed out, chins up, knowing they beat the best team in the league when no one thought they could do it."
The leadoff batter hit a shot to J.P. at second, just to his left. He moved over, calmly played a wicked hop and threw the runner out at first. Solid, solid play. They've got this thing, I thought. The Braves got a batter on base thanks to a short dribbler, then a hard hit ball got by Benton at first base. With men on first and third, the next batter struck out. Two outs. My heart pounding, I said to myself, "just get one more out. Now!"
The next batter hit a ball back to Aidan at pitcher. He bobble the ball for a critical split second, then threw it to Benton at first. It was a close play, but the ball beat the runner to the bag by a step, after which Benton tagged the runner, as well. Ballgame! As we all began to celebrate, Reynolds, the 18 year old umpire, came out from behind home plate quietly - almost ashamedly - signaled the runner safe at first.
Our fans erupted, shouting in dismay. Russ stormed down the left field line along the fence toward the outfield, afraid of what he might say. In the dugout, Randy, Will and I immediately began raising hell. I walked out on the field, still stunned but getting really, really angry, and said to Reynolds, "What was the call? What did you see?" He replied, without even looking at me, "The runner beat the ball." "That's the wrong call, Reynolds," I said. "You know that." "That's my call," he said. I turned around and walked back to the dugout, shaking my head in disgust.
Of course, the Braves rallied and tied it up 9-9 before the Dodgers were able to get the last out. After the game was over and the boys and coaches had shaken hands with each other, I walked up to Reynolds and said, quietly so no one else could hear, "You know I like you, Reynolds, but my boys worked too hard to have you blow a call like that at that point in the game." He looked directly at me and said, earnestly, "Phil, I'm an 18 year old umpire doing the best I can." I immediately felt like a complete asshole. "I know," I said.
The boys ran into left field, as they always do after games (and as they have been doing after games in which I've coached them for 3 or 4 years, in fall and spring). It's quite the ritual. 2 or 3 of them were crying as I got down on one knee and talked to them about the game. As always, there were lessons to be learned. Everyone makes mistakes was an obvious lesson, in terms of Reynolds' blown call. The biggest of the lessons, thought, was that they can compete with anybody at any time, on the baseball field or in life.
I was devastated and couldn't stop thinking about the game.
Still, the Zen moment for me was right before we put J.P. to bed, when he was in the bathroom and I said, "J.P., I really wanted to win that game for you guys tonight." He looked at me and said, nonchalantly, "that's funny, dad, because we wanted to win it for you."
I'll remember that stolen moment for as long as I live. Of course, I'll remember that game for as long as I live, too.
Going into the game, J.P. and the Dodgers were 11-2. Their only losses had come at the hands of the Braves. Most recently, the Braves shut them out, 12-0, in what was by far the Dodgers' worst performance of the season. In my view, that game was indicative of the fact that the boys are slightly intimidated by the Braves and beat themselves before the game begins.
Early on Monday evening, it looked like it would be more of the same. The Dodgers went down 1-2-3 in the top of the first inning, then kicked the ball around the infield in the bottom of the first. After two innings, the Braves were on top 5-0 and even I was feeling a little discouraged. In the third inning, the Dodgers pushed across a couple of runs to make it 5-2, but things still weren't looking promising. Their defense had definitely improved, though.
Suddenly, in the to of the fourth inning, the Dodgers erupted for six runs. The highlight of the inning occurred when Wes T. hit a triple to right field that turned into a home run, when the ball got away from an infielder and I sent him scampering home. From my vantage point coaching third base, I looked into our dugout on the first base side of the infield. As Wes trotted in, the boys were screaming and yelling, hugging each other. They pounded Wes on the back and chest bumped him as he smiled bemusedly. That's just Wes.
The lowlight of the same inning was when one of our players - Aidan - was hit with the baseball square in the ribs off a relay throw as he hustled into third base with a legitimate triple. As Aidan rolled around on the ground crying, clutching his side, Pat yelled in from his coaches' spot in the field, "Tag him! Tag him!" Pissed, I yelled back, "Pat, you're the only coach in the league who would yell 'tag him!' when a player is on the ground injured."
By the end of the inning, the Dodgers had taken an 8-5 lead and the boys were jacked. In the bottom of the fourth inning, I had J.P. at second base, Aidan at pitcher, Benton at first base, Henry at catcher, Cooper at third base and Wes at catcher. My strongest infield or close to it, I figured. With two outs and runners on first and second, the batter hit a shot to third base. Cooper ranged to his left, fielded the ball cleanly and scampered back to step on third base for the third out of the inning. I looked at Cooper's dad (and my good friend), Russ, leaning over the fence on the third base line. He was proud and damn, I was, too.
I trotted across the infield and told the boys to listen up as I addressed them through the dugout fence. "Listen up," I said. "You're beating your friends' team by 3 runs in the last game of the season and you get to bat one more time! Let's get a couple of runs and finish these guys off!" George C. Patton I'm not, but the boys erupted in cheers. I walked back out to coach third base.
The first two players made outs, then Cyrus stepped in to hit. A little about my guy, Cyrus. He's the youngest player on the team at 7 years of age. He's also the quietest boy on the team, by far. He's also the most athletic, for my money, but he doesn't know it yet. His father, Isaac, played Division 1 basketball and Cyrus clearly inherited his natural athletic ability. Cyrus is also one of my all-time favorite boys.
Cyrus, a lefty who normally hits the ball the opposite way but not with authority, took a couple of practice swings, then leaned back in the box, ready to hit. He swung at the first pitch he saw and absolutely crushed the baseball. I mean, it actually sounded different coming off his red bat (which, by the way, is almost as big as Cyrus is). The ball sailed between the right and right center fielders, over their heads and rolled to the fence. Cyrus motored into the third base with a stand up triple. And the crowd went wild, as they say. I turned around, stunned, and looked at Isaac and Russ, and they were high fiving each other. I think I even got a little smile out of Cyrus when I slapped him on the helmet.
Davis got a single, knocked Cyrus in and the Dodgers were up 9-3 headed into the bottom of the fifth and last inning. I decided to play the infield the same as in the fourth inning. Why mess up a good thing?
As the inning was about to start and I stood in the first base dugout with my friends and fellow coaches, Randy and Will, I looked at them and said, "I know this won't sound right, but I want our boys to beat those bastards and go to school for the next week and a half (until school is out) with their chests puffed out, chins up, knowing they beat the best team in the league when no one thought they could do it."
The leadoff batter hit a shot to J.P. at second, just to his left. He moved over, calmly played a wicked hop and threw the runner out at first. Solid, solid play. They've got this thing, I thought. The Braves got a batter on base thanks to a short dribbler, then a hard hit ball got by Benton at first base. With men on first and third, the next batter struck out. Two outs. My heart pounding, I said to myself, "just get one more out. Now!"
The next batter hit a ball back to Aidan at pitcher. He bobble the ball for a critical split second, then threw it to Benton at first. It was a close play, but the ball beat the runner to the bag by a step, after which Benton tagged the runner, as well. Ballgame! As we all began to celebrate, Reynolds, the 18 year old umpire, came out from behind home plate quietly - almost ashamedly - signaled the runner safe at first.
Our fans erupted, shouting in dismay. Russ stormed down the left field line along the fence toward the outfield, afraid of what he might say. In the dugout, Randy, Will and I immediately began raising hell. I walked out on the field, still stunned but getting really, really angry, and said to Reynolds, "What was the call? What did you see?" He replied, without even looking at me, "The runner beat the ball." "That's the wrong call, Reynolds," I said. "You know that." "That's my call," he said. I turned around and walked back to the dugout, shaking my head in disgust.
Of course, the Braves rallied and tied it up 9-9 before the Dodgers were able to get the last out. After the game was over and the boys and coaches had shaken hands with each other, I walked up to Reynolds and said, quietly so no one else could hear, "You know I like you, Reynolds, but my boys worked too hard to have you blow a call like that at that point in the game." He looked directly at me and said, earnestly, "Phil, I'm an 18 year old umpire doing the best I can." I immediately felt like a complete asshole. "I know," I said.
The boys ran into left field, as they always do after games (and as they have been doing after games in which I've coached them for 3 or 4 years, in fall and spring). It's quite the ritual. 2 or 3 of them were crying as I got down on one knee and talked to them about the game. As always, there were lessons to be learned. Everyone makes mistakes was an obvious lesson, in terms of Reynolds' blown call. The biggest of the lessons, thought, was that they can compete with anybody at any time, on the baseball field or in life.
I was devastated and couldn't stop thinking about the game.
Still, the Zen moment for me was right before we put J.P. to bed, when he was in the bathroom and I said, "J.P., I really wanted to win that game for you guys tonight." He looked at me and said, nonchalantly, "that's funny, dad, because we wanted to win it for you."
I'll remember that stolen moment for as long as I live. Of course, I'll remember that game for as long as I live, too.
Monday, May 16, 2016
Knocking Dad Off the Bucket
In the distant recesses of my memory, I recall a time when J.P. was 5 or 6 and I was coaching him in the WNSL Wookie League. It's a coach pitch (5 pitches)/tee ball league. When I practiced with him individually, with the team or during games, I normally sat on a bucket turned upside down and pitched to him.
Somewhere along the line, I started encouraging him to "knock me off the bucket." In other words, I wanted him to hit the ball back up the middle. If he did, I make a big production out of falling off the bucket, into the dirt. He loved it. Over and over again, he would try to knock me off the bucket. He did it, too, on the baseball field at Rose Park and on fields 4 and 5 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ. Good times.
Well, Joe is 4 now, the youngest player on the "Junior Dodgers," and I, of course, am the head coach. Just as was at the case with J.P., I pitch to Joe and his teammates, in practice and games, while sitting on a blue Lowe's bucket, placed upside down in the dirt, ten feet or so from home plate. And I love it, still.
In our game Saturday, the first time Joe was up to bat, he hammered the first pitched right back at me. It was a line drive, low, hit directly at the bucket. As it caromed off the bucket, I really didn't have enough time to react. Stunned, I fell off the bucket into the dirt, as Joe ran to first base, an ear splitting grin on his 4 year old face. I jumped up, brushed my self off and ran to first base to give him five, heart bursting with pride.
"I knocked you off the bucket!!" he said.
You sure did, Joe. And I love your for it.
Somewhere along the line, I started encouraging him to "knock me off the bucket." In other words, I wanted him to hit the ball back up the middle. If he did, I make a big production out of falling off the bucket, into the dirt. He loved it. Over and over again, he would try to knock me off the bucket. He did it, too, on the baseball field at Rose Park and on fields 4 and 5 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ. Good times.
Well, Joe is 4 now, the youngest player on the "Junior Dodgers," and I, of course, am the head coach. Just as was at the case with J.P., I pitch to Joe and his teammates, in practice and games, while sitting on a blue Lowe's bucket, placed upside down in the dirt, ten feet or so from home plate. And I love it, still.
In our game Saturday, the first time Joe was up to bat, he hammered the first pitched right back at me. It was a line drive, low, hit directly at the bucket. As it caromed off the bucket, I really didn't have enough time to react. Stunned, I fell off the bucket into the dirt, as Joe ran to first base, an ear splitting grin on his 4 year old face. I jumped up, brushed my self off and ran to first base to give him five, heart bursting with pride.
"I knocked you off the bucket!!" he said.
You sure did, Joe. And I love your for it.
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Joe Hockey
Joe, after the Predators' 3 overtime game 4, second round playoff victory over the San Jose Sharks.
Predators win!
The Great Tootsie Roll Caper
A week ago Friday night, I walked in the front door after a long, difficult week at work and was met by J.P. as soon as I stepped inside. His eyes were red and he was sniffling. He started crying when he could see I was a little irritated with him and Jude told him to go upstairs to his room to collect himself.
I changed clothes and walked upstairs to J.P.'s bedroom to see why he was so upset. When I walked in, he started sniffling again, gulping breaths and said, "I'm sorry, Daddy, I did something sneaky."
"What did you do, J.P.?" I said.
Crying harder, now, he said, "I've been sneaking Tootsie Rolls."
I burst out laughing, initially, then replied, "what do you mean?"
What I learned in the ensuing conversation was that for the past couple of weeks, J.P. had been waiting until Joe was outside with Jude, Carley or me, then he would come back inside and go into the pantry. On the bottom shelf, there was an old bag of Halloween candy that had Tootsie Rolls in it. J.P. would ease the door almost closed, so the light wouldn't go off, and grab a Tootsie Roll or two and eat them in the pantry.
Intrigued, I asked him where he hid the wrappers. "In the trash," he said. "Did you bury the wrappers under the trash?" I asked. "Sometimes," he said. Apparently, he didn't bury the wrappers deeply enough because Jude found a couple of them earlier in the evening and asked who had been eating Tootsie Rolls. J.P. immediately confessed, then got upset because he thought I might not let him go to a friend's birthday sleepover the next night.
I told him I didn't think he needed to miss the sleepover. We agreed an appropriate punishment would be to not eat sweets for two weeks, since he had been sneaking Tootsie Rolls for two weeks.
Let the punishment meet the crime.
I changed clothes and walked upstairs to J.P.'s bedroom to see why he was so upset. When I walked in, he started sniffling again, gulping breaths and said, "I'm sorry, Daddy, I did something sneaky."
"What did you do, J.P.?" I said.
Crying harder, now, he said, "I've been sneaking Tootsie Rolls."
I burst out laughing, initially, then replied, "what do you mean?"
What I learned in the ensuing conversation was that for the past couple of weeks, J.P. had been waiting until Joe was outside with Jude, Carley or me, then he would come back inside and go into the pantry. On the bottom shelf, there was an old bag of Halloween candy that had Tootsie Rolls in it. J.P. would ease the door almost closed, so the light wouldn't go off, and grab a Tootsie Roll or two and eat them in the pantry.
Intrigued, I asked him where he hid the wrappers. "In the trash," he said. "Did you bury the wrappers under the trash?" I asked. "Sometimes," he said. Apparently, he didn't bury the wrappers deeply enough because Jude found a couple of them earlier in the evening and asked who had been eating Tootsie Rolls. J.P. immediately confessed, then got upset because he thought I might not let him go to a friend's birthday sleepover the next night.
I told him I didn't think he needed to miss the sleepover. We agreed an appropriate punishment would be to not eat sweets for two weeks, since he had been sneaking Tootsie Rolls for two weeks.
Let the punishment meet the crime.
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