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.

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.

Joe Hockey

Joe, after the Predators' 3 overtime game 4, second round playoff victory over the San Jose Sharks.

Predators win!

I love this picture of J.P.  Notice the Rollie Fingers mustache.

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.

Out in Left Field

I was determined to post more in 2016 and did a pretty good job earlier in the year but, of course, now it's been a month and a half since I last checked in.  Go figure.  Life (lots of life happening), work and a little play.  

I'm sitting at Bongo Java at my favorite table up front, trying to steal 30 minutes on a busy Friday morning.  For background music, I'm listening to Escondido - "the Ghost of Escondido," which J.P., Joe and I absolutely have been wearing out the past month or so.  Great, great first album from a band based in Nashville.  It's been fun to listen to them, over and over again, in the truck with the boys.  I love it when we're all three into a band or an album at the same time.  It happened with the Drive By Truckers and their latest album, Jason Isbell and his latest album and now, with Escondido.

The song of my spring, actually, is Escondido - "Cold October."

On with the show . . . 

Tuesday evening, J.P. had a 5:15 p.m. baseball game.  Those games often are difficult to get to on time, as they occur right after work, traffic is a bitch, etc.  Still, it's great when everyone arrives at 4:45 p.m. because we have time for me to hit infield to the boys, which I love.  

The majority of J.P.'s team - the Dodgers - are 8 years old and I have coached 10/12 in the past.  So, there's a familiarity and an effortless rapport between us that makes it so easy to coach and teach them.  It's great to hit them infield, because they're finally at an age and experience level where we can get some good work accomplished.  

If I get to Heaven someday, and that's a big if, I'm hoping my  job assignment for eternity is to hit infield to 8 year olds on a beautiful spring evening.  For me, it's a small, small piece of heaven and earth.  I love it.

So, Tuesday night, it was the Dodgers vs. the Braves.  Pretty quickly, I could tell we were playing a good hitting, well coached team.  We were a coach or two short, so I coached first and chatted up some of the Braves' dads who were standing along the first base line, leaning over the fence.  Classic dad pose.  I could tell, as I talked to the dads, that they were a fairly confident group who didn't expect to see their sons lose.  

It was a great, competitive game until our boys scored 7 runs in the third or fourth inning to take a 13-6 lead.  As I talked with the Braves' dads, it was with more than a little pride that I answered their questions about our team - Where do your boys go to school?  How long have they been playing together?  Ultimately, the Dodgers won 16-9.

One inning, I played J.P. at pitcher.  It's a machine pitch league, so the pitcher is essentially a fielder.  J.P. made all three putouts in the inning and I smiled as his teammates chest bumped him in the dugout.  

What made the game memorable for me, though, was what happened in the last inning.  J.P. was playing second base and their were runners on first base and second base.  The Braves had scored a few runs to cut the score to 16-9.  The boys were pressing a little bit, I could tell, and there were two outs.  The batter hit a hard grounder to J.P. at second.  J.P., low to the ground, squared up an centered the ball, but it took a bad hop and hit him in the wrist, then chest.  Keeping his poise, J.P. calmly snatched the ball up and whipped it to first, beating the runner by a step for the last out of the game.  

As he trotted off the field, I could see he had a tear in his eye from where the ground ball had hit him on the wrist.  I stopped him, gave him a hug and said, "Are you okay?  Did the ball hit you?"  He looked up, a little defiantly, and said, "No, I'm fine," then ran into the dugout.  The boys lined up, said good game to the other team and ran out to left field waiting for me to run out to talk to them after the game, as is our long established custom.

J.P., my 8 year old son.  Tough guy.  Damn, was I proud of him.  

The Church of the Long Run

Some Sundays, I need to go to the Church of the Long Run.  Today was one of those Sundays.

I begged out of church with Jude and the boys and ran 10 miles on the muddy trails at Shelby Bottoms.  It was a glorious day for a run, with a bright blue sky above and the temperature in the mid-50's.

It's been ages since I've run 10 miles.  It felt so good to be back on the trails at Shelby Bottoms - a place where I've logged so many miles over the past 15 years - running long again.  I parked at the entrance to Shelby Park, by the tennis courts, and started on the trail by the dog park.  As I ran some trails I hadn't run in a year or more, I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the days when I was on the trails, running long, every Saturday morning.

Kids, work, age, injuries and, perhaps, a lack of resolve have led me away from the long runs I used to get in so often, usually at Shelby Bottoms.  My weekly mileage has decreased as a result, and regular 20 + miles weeks have turned into 15 + miles weeks, if I'm lucky.

One of the ancillary benefits of deciding to run the Country Music Half-Marathon this April, after having taken a couple of years off, is its forced me to get back in the habit of running long again.  That's a good thing, for me, anyway.  I've realized, too, that it helps me tremendously to have a goal or an objective - like an upcoming race or a yearly mileage total to shoot for - as a means to motivate myself to run long.

Running long on a regular basis is an entirely different thing than running regularly.  Running long takes more of a commitment.  It's going to hurt, almost every time.  It's a mental and emotional test for me, too, every time, as my mind inevitably begins to tell me reasons why I should stop before I'm finished.  Somehow, my heart or my soul fights back, and encourages me to ignore that voice inside my head telling me to stop and walk.  When I win - when I finish a long run - it's such a feeling of satisfaction, more so than finishing a normal, shorter run during the week.  I've overcome adversity, again, and finished a long run.  It just feels good, and that feeling stays with me for the rest of the day.

It's a little bit selfish, I know, but  that's just part of the personality of serious runners.  It's a time commitment, one most runners are happy to make given the rewards.  I know it's a bit of an inconvenience for my family, though, as I'm usually skipping a family event - like church - or taking away from time I could be spending with them.  That being said, I'm a better version of "me" when I'm running regularly and running long.

I do my best thinking during long runs.  I clear my head during long runs.  I've said this before, I think, but I've composed entire eulogies and opening or closing arguments in my head, during long runs at Shelby Bottoms.  Seriously.  I think running long brings out the best of who I am and helps me figure out who I want to and need to be.  I feel closer to God when I run long, which means there really is something to this "Church of the Long Run" thing, for me, anyway.

So, I've finished my "Mood Elevator" and the boys and Jude will be waking from their Sunday afternoon naps any minute now.  Time to step off the front porch at Bongo Java on this beautiful "almost Spring" day and head home.