The Dodgers

The Dodgers' baseball season ended for the spring on Saturday afternoon.  Dodgers II lost 11 - 5 to the Giants (for the second times) in the semifinals in the bronze division of our end of season tournament.  Dodgers I, JP's tournament team, trounced the Cubs 16 - 4 to win the Silver division end of season tournament.

This spring, the Dodgers had 19 players on our roster, as we added a few new players from BSAA (Bellevue).  The plan - and I think it worked well - was to have two teams (Dodgers I and II) that would play doubleheaders during the week and on Saturdays.  With two teams, I had the flexibility to move players back and forth, as needed, with the understanding that Dodgers I was generally the more experienced team and played a lot of teams of mostly 12 year olds (our boys are all 11 years old) while Dodgers II played less experienced teams.

We added two coaches - Jonathan N. and Ronnie S. - both of whom were fantastic.  They fit in well with our regular group - Chris T., Tony W., Randy K., Will W. and Chad P.  The new boys, of course, fit in seamlessly, like they had been with us from day one.  Almost without exception, having two teams seemed to work well for everyone.  I'm going to debrief with a couple of my longtime coaches to see if they agree but I anticipate we'll do the same thing in the fall.

Appropriately, Dodgers I peaked at the right time in the season finale.  They were aided by a couple of forfeits by other teams in the end of season tournament but the Cubs - in our bracket - benefitted similarly.  Our pitchers were fresh and the Cubs' stud, a behemoth (bats right, throws left), was primed and ready to pitch deep into the game.

Robbie D. got into trouble early pitching for us and I lifted him in the first inning with one run in and the bases loaded.  Porter W. trotted in from right field and pitched as well as I've ever seen him pitch. He ignored the pressure and retired two batters in a row on a strikeout and a groundout.  Just like that, Dodgers I was out of the inning.

The Cubs' big man struggled early and often on the mound.  The boys hit him and took several walks as he struggled with his control.  Dodgers I jumped out to an early lead and never looked back.  Porter W. pitched 2 2/3 innings and Benton W. finished up, throwing gas.

JP played well at shortstop.  One inning, late in the game, he fielded a ground ball up the middle and threw on the run to Wes T. at first base of the first out.  Next, he caught a line drive hit to his left.  For the third out, he charged a slow roller, fielding it and throwing it to Wes. T. in one motion.  Very smooth.  As he trotted off the field, he was beaming.  To tell you the truth, so was I.  His future is probably at second base but he can play shortstop as he has all season long.

I'm proud of all of my Dodgers.  It's been a great spring season, though the rain disrupted our practice and game schedule.  Now, it's on to All Stars and June baseball.

The Junior Dodgers

Last night on a beautiful late afternoon on field #3 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, the Junior Dodgers blanked the Cubs, 12 - 0, in the last game of pool play in WNSL's end of season tournament.

It was one of those special games.  Every player in the lineup - all 10 of them - had at least one hit.  Everybody contributed.  The boys were happy to be playing baseball with their friends.  And I was happy as hell to be running the pitching machine and coaching them.

With J.P.'s team, the Dodgers, I didn't normally run the pitching machine.  I had the maestro, Dan Ayres (aka "the Professor"), to run the pitching machine.  And he was the absolute best at it.

The pitching machine, by the way, is a spring activated machine that's designed to throw a consistent pitch, every time, to the 7 and 8 year olds in our league.  And it almost never does.  Some can operate it better than others.  Fortunately, I've got enough experience on it that I generally can coax good pitches out of it.  Generally, not always.

There's nothing worse than having a 7 year old up at bat with one pitch left to throw - each boy gets three swings for five total pitches if he hasn't swung and missed three times - and, as he looks out at me expectantly, I throw him a bad pitch, he doesn't or can pull the trigger and swing, and his at bat ends after which he trudges back to the bench, head down.

Conversely, some nights are like last night.  The machine is dialed in or I'm dialed in, or both, and every single boy is hitting.  We've had two, maybe three games like that all season.  It's a joy to watch.

Last night, two of my boys, James and Lucas, got big, big hits.  Both of them are right-handers and have been stepping out of the batter's box with their front foot when they swing, stepping toward the third base dugout.  It's been a struggle, because we haven't been able to get as much - or any - practice time due to all of the rain this spring.  Still, they've battled.

James took a ball off his right knuckle in his first at bat, but didn't cry and stayed in there to finish the at bat.  It was a good one.  His swings were good and level and he didn't step out of the box with his front foot.  In his second at bat, with two strikes, he roped a line drive to right field between first and second base.  I jumped and cheered as he ran to first base.  I could hear our parents, sitting or standing on the third base side of the fence, down the left field line, cheering wildly.  I ran over to James and gave him a big hug.  I was, and am, so proud of him.

The next couple of players got hits and James ended up at third base.  One of our strongest players and best hitters, Trey, was coming up to bat.  Trey's enthusiasm is infectious.  Great, great kid.  First one at the ballpark, always smiling, always ready to play baseball.  Before he stepped into the batter's box, he yelled down to James at third base.

"James!  Hey, James!"  When James looked at him, Trey said, "great hit!"

James smiled and yelled back, "thanks!"

That, in a nutshell, is why I devote so much of my time to coaching baseball, scheduling games, emailing parents, etc.  In that one moment in the twilight on baseball field at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ, I saw leadership, sportsmanship, camaraderie, friendship, innocence, earnestness and a blissful happiness.  And more.  All in that one moment.  It was beautiful.

Later, Lucas, who has struggled hitting as of late, laced a hard ground ball single in the hold between third base and shortstop.  After he arrived at first base, again to the cheers of all of our parents, I heard him yell, "I don't know how I did that!"

I smiled, then laughed out loud, then picked up a baseball and carefully placed it on the pitching machine, just so.  Still smiling, I pulled the lever back, popped it and pitched the ball to the next batter.

And somewhere in that moment, I thought to myself, I just might be the luckiest man in the world.

Mother's Day and a Return to Happier Times

Last Sunday was Mother's Day, my first one without a mother to celebrate.  The word that best describes the entire weekend is desultory.  I went through the motions of living my life but in reality, I was on autopilot.  Sunday, of course, was tough.  

Shortly after my mom died, I penned a long thank you note to the staff in the Courtyard at NHC Place, where my mom was living before she died.  For one reason or another, though, I never printed the letter and took it by there, although I had intended to do so many times.  I even had ordered photographs of my mom so I could attach them to the letter for staff and residents to see.  

I woke up on day and three months had passed since my mother's death on January 31, and I hadn't been back to NHC Place. 

I knew that needed to change and, although I knew it would be gut wrenching, I decided to visit on Mother's Day.  So, after church on Sunday, I drove to NHC Place in Franklin, TN, and walked in for the first time since I got the call from a nurse on January 24 to tell me that something had happened to my mom overnight.  

Nancy, the weekend receptionist, smiled when she saw me, stood up and said, "Mr. Newman!"  Still smiling, she said, "you used to always bring donuts."  We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then I walked down the hall to the Courtyard and as I did, a flood of memories overwhelmed me.  

How many times had I made that walk down the hall on the way to see my mom?  So many, but not enough, I feel.

I punched in the code and walked into the Courtyard, not without trepidation.  Tears filled my eyes as I saw several familiar faces among the residents, going about their daily activities.  It was like my mom hadn't died and I had never left.  Then, I realized there were a few faces missing.  

I walked up behind a home health care employee who always sits up front with her patient.  She turned around, grinned, stood up and gave me a hug.  

"I was just thinking about you and your mom," she said.  "I miss her." 

"I do, too," I replied.  

I saw Dahlia and a couple of other staff members.  It was a little bit awkward for them, I think, probably because they could see that I was struggling with my emotions.  I think they knew it was my first time back in the Courtyard and, really, they weren't quite sure what to say.  I hugged them, anyway, and that made me feel better.  Hopefully, it made them feel better, too.

I walked back to my mom's apartment, growing more - nervous, I guess - with every step I took down the hall.  There was no photograph on the outside of her door, so it was apparent that no one was living there.  That surprised me and, I think, saddened me a little bit, too.  I walked inside and the powerful sense of nostalgia almost knocked me off my feet.  I looked in the closets and drawers hoping to find some remnant of my mother's life there, but there was nothing left behind. 

It was such an indescribably weird feeling, just standing in this apartment where mom spent the last months of her life.  I looked at the bed and I couldn't help but recall, in vivid detail, how she lay there helplessly surrounded by staff, a nurse and a doctor, when I rushed in on the morning of January 24, so different than when I had seen her the afternoon before.  It was almost real.  

I left the apartment after a few minutes and walked down the hall.  I could see some residents who had been there three months ago were gone and some new residents had arrived.  I continued into the common area and I stopped, again, just to look at everyone.  

It was then and there that I realized why I had felt drawn to return to NHC Place - to the Courtyard - on Mother's Day.  

I saw Ms. Ann, who lived in Aspen Arbor when my mom moved in there in October 2017.  She smiled up at me from her wheelchair.  In recognition?  Perhaps or perhaps not.  But she certainly knew I was a friendly face.  

"Ann, how are you?" I said.

"I'm better now," she replied.  Still smiling.  "We had some good times, didn't we?"  

Ann actually said that to me, word for work. 

"We sure did, Ann.  We sure did," I answered.  

I walked around the room and greeted Ms. Deana, Ms. Sarah and last, but not least, Ms. Carol.

My mom shared a table with Carol every day.  They read magazines together and they ate together.  They were compatible.  I used to sneak Carol ice cream when I brought it for my mom, although she wasn't supposed to eat sweets.  Carol was so grateful and always thanked me profusely.  My boys, J.P. and Joe, used to read books to my mom and Carol.  

Dahlia walked up and joined us.  She tried to remind Carol who I was and, more importantly, who my mom was.  

"Remember Ms. Jane, Carol?  She used to sit with you."  Dahlia said.  

Carol looked at Dahlia blankly, then at me.  There wasn't a glimmer of remembrance of my mom and the times they spent together.  That made me sad.

I gave Carol a hug, said a quiet goodbye to Dahlia, and left. 

Happy Mother's Day, mom.  I miss you and I love you.

    

  

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

It's just past 7:30 a.m., the beginning of May, and I'm sitting in Bongo Java before work.  Old school it is, as I'm having a Mood Elevator made by Josh, one of my all time favorite baristas.  Anywhere.  Josh is really the last man standing from the old crew at Bongo Java.  He makes the only iced coffee drink I like.

Exams are over and the Belmont U. kids are mostly gone for the summer.  Some of the upperclassmen are still around waiting for graduation later this week.  Parking will be easier for the next 3 months, for sure.  We'll be able to get into Chago's and the other restaurants easier, too.  The quiet summer in the neighborhood begins.  It's the cycle of life living near a college campus.  We've been riding that wave for 15 years.

I wanted to write a bit about Joe's baseball game Monday night, while it was still relatively fresh in my mind.  The Junior Dodgers are having a good season, although with mostly 7 year olds, they're one of the youngest teams in the Rookie division of WNSL.  Moving up early in the fall to hit off the machine as mostly 6 year olds helped tremendously, as I knew it would.

Monday night, we were playing an older team, the Cubs.  As Joe and I walked up to field #4 at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ - my favorite field and one with so many happy memories - a Cubs' player standing near home plate looked at us and said, "we're going to cream you."  In response, I looked at him and said, "you may.  Or, you might strike out four times."

Father of the year.

One of our best players, Trey, busted his lip in warmups when he missed a ball thrown by a coach and it hit him in the face.  Not too hard, but hard enough to bust his lip, which bled and pretty quickly swelled.  Trey sat the first two innings - he normally plays first base - and Joe stepped in at first for him.  Joe's a gamer and did reasonably well even with his infielder's, small glove, getting a couple of putouts.

Early on, it looked like the kid was right, as the Cubs put five on us in the first inning.  We managed a measly run, then the Cubs scored two more.  7-1 after two innings.  It was looking like a long day for us, which in no fun when you're running the pitching machine like I was.  Our boys were struggling at the plate, which adds pressure to me on the machine because I want to try to give them something to hit.  The hard part is, of course, if they don't hit I feel like I don't have the machine dialed in well enough to give them something to hit.

Suddenly, in the third inning, the Junior Dodgers' bats exploded.  Everybody started hitting.  We batted around, scoring eight runs in one inning to take a 9-7 lead.  The Cubs and their parents were shell shocked.  I had the pitching machine dialed in and the boys were dialed in.

The best part of the game - hell, maybe the best part of my Junior Dodgers season - was when George Bell got his first two solid hits of the season.  He and I have put in extra work together with his hitting, at practice and before games, and it paid off Monday night.  When he got his first hit, our parents cheered loudly as I raised my arms in triumph while he ran to first base.  I made eye contact with his parents who could hardly contain themselves.  I ran over to first to congratulate George and slapped him on the helmet.

It was such a great moment and, for me, encapsulated why I love coaching baseball so much.  It's great, of course, to coach my sons.  But it's great, too, and so satisfying to see a boy struggle, work hard and be rewarded for his hard work by experiencing a small measure of success in a game situation.

This is special group of boys, these Junior Dodgers.  7 and 8 year olds are so much fun to coach.  It's a great age.  Competitive but not too much so.  Not much strategy and mostly all fun.

It was a great night.  A happy night.  A baseball night.  These are such memorable times on the baseball fields.  I'm appreciating them now because I know one day in the not too distant future, they'll be gone.

Lost in My Mind

Am I okay?

Approaching three months since my mom died, I guess so.  But I don't really know.  I feel more like myself, like I did before January 23, 2019, when I was sitting right where I am this morning - at Honest Coffee Roasters, having a cup of coffee - when Tracy called me from Birmingham, AL, and told me to call NHC Place because something had happened with mom.

Have I properly grieved?  I don't know.  Am I still grieving?  Yes.  Am I appropriately sad?  Not sad enough?  Too sad?  I don't know.  There's no blueprint for all of this.  That's something I've discovered.

Everyone handles death - true loss - differently.  That's something I'm learning firsthand, for sure.  And - this part is important - there is no right or wrong way, there's just your way.

My way to process the grief after my mom's death is not Tracy's way.  It's not Alice's way or Kaitlyn's way or Matthew's way.  It's also not J.P.'s way or Joe's way.  And that's as it should be, I think.

What worries me, though, is that I've become so immersed in the day to day details of my life - partly out of necessity and partly as a defense mechanism - that I'm not sure I'm actually processing my grief.  It may be that I'm postponing it by compartmentalizing my emotions and focusing on work, coaching baseball and worrying about how others in my family are doing.  J.P., for sure, but also Tracy, Alice, Kaitlyn, Matthew, etc.

I'm coaching 30 boys on three baseball teams.  Lots of e-mails to parents, roster management for my two 11-12 year old teams, practices and games.  And I love every minute of it.  It keeps me busy.

My work, too, has been so busy.  And as a family law attorney, so many of my clients demand so much of me emotionally.  I think I've willingly given even more of that part of myself to them as of late, probably unconsciously so I won't have as much left in my emotional tank, so to speak, to spend on the loss of my mom.  That makes me feel guilty sometimes.  A lot of the time, actually.

In other words, am I deliberately focusing my attention any my emotions on everything but my own feelings about losing my mom?  Am I avoiding dealing with my own sadness?  Have I put my sadness in a box - compartmentalized it (there's that word again) - only to have to deal with it later?  I just don't know.

I've avoided - consciously or unconsciously - visiting NHC Place or stopping by my mom's house.  I don't think that's healthy, although maybe it is temporarily.

I guess what worries me is that when the music stops and I have some down time, am I going to be okay?  I think so.  I hope so, too.

Having a Catch

This morning, before church, the boys and I drove a few blocks to Belmont U. to throw the baseball while Jude went to the grocery store.  We parked on 15th and walked into a large, square green space between the relatively new law school and the relatively new multimedia building.  In other words, we were right where the tennis courts used to be be before Belmont began growing into the monolith it is now.

The boys got out of my truck with their baseball gloves as I grabbed my glove, a few baseballs and a bat out of the back.  We ambled across the street, the three of us, content to be together on a Sunday morning.  We stretched a bit, then I had J.P. and Joe walk 15 or 20 feet away from me.  Then, I started throwing the ball to them, alternating, two to Joe, two to J.P.

We didn't say much.  We just threw the ball back and forth, although I occasionally quietly corrected one of the boys' form.  On most throws, the "thwack" of the ball hitting right in the pocket of one of our gloves echoed between the two building.  Sweet, sweet music to my ears.

I backed them up, bit by bit, until we were long tossing the baseball back and forth.  Regular long toss helps with arm strength.  Nice, easy long toss throws.  I've always done that with J.P., and Joe, too, and I think it's partially responsible for the fact that both of them have strong and accurate arms, more so than most of the other boys their age.

So, here's the really cool part of all of this.  Toward the end of our throwing session, J.P. and Joe were equally distant from me as we were long tossing.  Sure, I had to take something off my long toss throws to Joe, and for the most part, I tried to throw the ball a little lower to his glove side so the catch would be a bit easier.  He caught them all and with a quick crow up and concentrated effort, he was able to throw the ball accurately lot me without my having to move toward him.

Maybe that's too technical, but the point is that for probably the first time, I had both boys throwing with me - long tossing - next to each other.  If not as equals, as peers.  It was another one of this "snapshot moments" for me as a father, particularly one who loves baseball as much as I do.

As I've always said, "what's better than having a catch with your son?"  Nothing, right?

Well, it turns out there is something better.  Having a catch with both of your sons.

The Roar of the Tiger

It's Saturday morning and thanks to overnight and early morning rain, the boys' baseball and soccer games this morning have been postponed.  I'm at Portland Brew having a cup of coffee while Jude sleeps in and the boys play in their iPads.

I read a Rick Reilly piece this morning from the Sports Illustrated Vault that got me thinking and reminiscing about my mom.  The piece was on Tiger Woods' first victory at the Masters, when he lapped the field and won by a record 12 strokes, 21 years ago today.

Here's a link to Reilly's piece -

https://www.si.com/vault/1997/04/21/225867/strokes-of-genius-overpowering-a-storied-course-and-a-stellar-field-tiger-woods-heralded-a-new-era-in-golf-with-an-awesome-12-shot-victory-in-the-masters

21 years ago.  It's crazy that it was that long ago, when I stop to think about it.  I was 31 years old and Mark and I had just started our law practice.  I was recently divorced from Jude and, if memory serves, hadn't started dating Jude yet.  J.P. and Joe, the North and South Poles of my life today, weren't even a thought in my mind.

And my mom was 58 years old, in her prime.

My mom loved Tiger Woods.  She didn't love golf - not really, other than for the sheer excitement and drama of a close finish in one of the majors - but she loved Tiger Woods.  I had completely forgotten about that until I checked my phone this morning and saw that he was 1 shot off the lead after 36 holes at the Masters.

Whenever Tiger was in contention at a tournament - and it seems like that was virtually every weekend in the late 90's and early to mid-2000's - she had the television on and watched golf on Saturdays, and especially Sundays, while she went about her business at home.  It's funny and I used to kid her about this, but she would have four, maybe five televisions in the house on, all tuned to golf, and she would keep up with how Tiger was doing as she went room to room.  She stayed busy, straightening up the house, paying bills, etc., but the television was always on.

Often times she would call me or I would call her multiple times if Tiger was playing in one of the final groups at a major on Sunday afternoon.  At that point, I think she stopped what she was doing and watched intently.  She absolutely adored Tiger Woods and reveled in every important victory of his career.  That, to me, was proof of his impact on the game of golf.  If Tiger Woods could my mom a golf fan, he had serious crossover appeal.

It's no secret and I've said it here often that I got my love so sports, for better or worse, from my mom.  One of the things I miss the most, and have missed the most, is talking sports with her.  Local sports, college sports, professional sports.  Really, any and all sports.  It was the currency of our conversations, a language we spoke to each other that, in some ways, only we understood completely.

I wish I could have talked to my mom about Rick Byrd's retirement as basketball coach at Belmont University.  I think she would have liked the Casey Alexander hire.

I wish I could have talked to my mom about Vanderbilt's decision to fire Bryce Drew and hire Jerry Steakhouse.  We would have had many conversations about that subject.  My mom would have hated - I mean, hated - the see Vanderbilt's basketball team go winless in the SEC this season.  That would have driven her crazy.

My mom would have loved Tennessee's run in the NCAA tournament.  Even though she wasn't a Tennessee basketball fan, not by any stretch, she should have liked Rick Barnes.  She would have loved Grant Williams, I think.  Admiral Schofield, I'm not so sure about.  She usually had one Tennessee basketball player she didn't like and it probably would have been the Admiral.  Still, she would have pulled for Tennessee in the NCAA tournament, in large part because she knew how excited I was about their success.

My mom would have had an opinion on Magic Johnson suddenly stepping down as the Lakers' President this week.  She would have wanted to know what I thought about Jeannie Buss's decision to fire Luke Walton.

As I recall, my mom was enthralled by Steph Curry's emergence as a star for Davidson in the NCAA tournament in 2008.  I think she would have been a big fan of the Golden State Warriors, too.

So many times, my mom would call me at then end of a work day for me, just to get my thoughts on something that had happened in the sports world.  It might be a local story or it might be a national story.  As I packed up my things at work or as I was on my way home, we discussed the sports story of the day.  It's just what we did.

Damn, what I wouldn't give for one more of those conversations with my mom.

I'm doing okay, I think, probably better than okay, under the circumstances.  Still, I'm finding that one of the times I really miss her is when there's a big sports story or event that is unfolding.  In those times, I'm reminded how special and unique of a woman and mother she was and of how she instilled in me a love of all sports.  A love that I've instilled in my boys, too.

Win the Masters for your dad this weekend, Tiger, and win it for my mom, too.