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.