Trust Your Hands

Every now and then, through nothing more than serendipity, someone comes into your life and leaves an indelible impression on it.  

It's not anything you can plan or make happen, of that I am sure.  What I think it is, though, is God's hand at work in your life.  For reasons forever unknown to you, God places someone in your life - or in your children's lives - during a time when he or she will have the most impact.  It just happens.  

The hard part, of course, is when a person like this leaves your life too soon.  

I met Scott McRae on the baseball fields at Warner Park which, if you know either one of us, should not come as a surprise.  Our boys, Daniel and Joe, played on competing teams, the Braves and the Diamondbacks.  Scott and I were competing coaches.  And, man, did we ever compete against each other!  Again, if you know either one of us, that should not come as a surprise.

If memory serves, the boys were ten years old at the time.  Daniel's Braves and Joe's Diamondbacks played each other two or three times a season, then again in the tournament, because their teams were two of the most most experienced in the league.  Evenly matched, the games were always very, very competitive.  There was a lot of talent on both teams.  It was a real rivalry, to the boys, the coaches, and the parents.  

A big part of what made the rivalry special, especially for recreational league baseball, was the quality and dedication of the coaches.  On the Braves' side, there was Scott McRae, Mark Erdman, and Mike Lalonde.  On the Diamondbacks' side, Oliver Davis, Ryan Stout, Matt Singleton, and me.  Men that loved baseball and more than anything, loved coaching baseball and teaching our boys and their friends how to play the game the right way.  The quality and depth of the coaching staffs on each time was very unusual for recreational league baseball.  Scott McRae and Oliver Davis were dedicated head coaches and the rest of us followed their lead.

As I write this, I'm smiling, because at the time, I don't think Scott and I really knew what to make of each other.  Two hyper competitive fathers raising young boys, both with a burning desire to win.  It was intense, to be sure.  I loved the competition and I think Scott did, too.  

What I learned later and why Scott and I became friends is that we have so much in common.  A deep, abiding Catholic faith.  A bottomless wellspring of love for our families.  A sense of humor.  A shared love of coaching and mentoring young men.  And a love of baseball, the greatest of all games.    

I am, roughly, 10 years older than Scott and most of the rest of the coaches.  I traveled the same route for over a decade, coaching baseball with JP, now 17, and his group of WNSL Dodgers.  It was the time of my life.  Because of that, I knew the time with Joe's group of Diamondbacks (Dodgers, too) and Daniel's Braves group was special.  I had been through a very similar experience with the Dodgers - Dirtbags, after which Pat Lawson (Dirtbags) and I became good friends.  

I also knew, too, that those baseballs seasons together with the boys, spring and fall, were fleeting, ephemeral even.  I never wanted it to end. 

Looking back now, those were halcyon days, to be sure.  Before travel baseball.  Before middle school baseball.  Before real life intruded on all of us, especially Scott and his family.  Those were days filled with love . . . for baseball, for competing, and for our boys. 

The first time I coached with Scott was in WNSL all-stars, after one of the spring seasons.  Scott was the head coach and, along with Mark Erdman and Mike Lalonde, I helped out, as needed.  I played a bit part, honestly, and was there to support Scott in any way he needed, at practice or games.  I was grateful for the way Scott accepted my son, Joe, and his teammates - Ram Chitale, Trey Glenn, Huck Phillips, and Bennett Lusk - into his group for all-stars.  Scott made my boys, Dodgers to the core, feel like they had played for his Braves forever.  

That was one of the many gifts Scott had, I think.  He had the innate ability to make you feel comfortable and at home in his presence from the very first moment you met him.  Like you had known him forever or, in Joe's case, like you had played for him forever.  Joe idolized Scott.  

Scott also had the unique ability to bring out the best in every boy he coached, another thing I think Scott and I shared in common.  In many ways, both us were born to coach and the baseball field, with our boys, was a sanctuary of sorts for us.  Everything made sense there.  

Things evolved organically from there like all of the best, most natural things in life seem to do.  I coached the fall baseball team, the Dodgers, and Scott's Braves, including his son Daniel, Keaton Erdman, and Big Mike Lalonde, played for me.  Truthfully, I think Scott enjoyed not having to be in charge of the fall baseball team.  Still, he hopped in at every practice and game, as needed, always willing and eager to give a boy a word of encouragement or instruction.  We often discussed how this boy or that boy was playing and what we could do to help him improve.     

When spring rolled around, the Dodgers became the Braves again, and Scott ran the show.  I helped out, if he needed me, and on occasion I stepped in when he was out of town for work or had a conflict.  Later, I jumped in and coached during all-stars as the boys competed at various baseball parks around Middle Tennessee.   

A year and a half ago late in June or early July, we coached the boys in unbearable heat in Mt. Juliet in their last all-star tournament of the season.  We ran out of pitching and in 100 + degree heat, the boys lost to a good Franklin team in the semifinals of the tourbamnebt.  It had been a long and hot weekend of baseball - with all of the coaches wearing those ridiculous baseball pants that Cal Ripken Baseball insisted we wear - so I was properly prepared for what I figured would be our final game.  I had a six pack of beer iced down in a cooler in my truck. 

After the game and after all of the parents and boys had left - in the comfortable silence of an empty ballpark in Mt. Juliet - Scott, Mark Erdman, and I sat in the fading July sun and drank a cold beer together. It was a special moment that all three of us wanted to hold onto, I think.  

We were exhausted and a little let down, since another baseball season was over.  We discussed the tournament and the final game in great detail, as coaches tend to do.  We talked about the entire baseball season.  We talked about plans for fall baseball.  We talked about how much we loved coaching our boys.  Mostly, we shared a quiet few minutes together.  

Looking back, it was one of the best and most memorable beers I've ever had.    

Not too long afterwards, Scott got sick.  When I saw him at our first fall baseball game, he didn't look good.  He'd lost weight and he wasn't sure why.  As the fall baseball season progressed, we touched base from time to time, often after I drove Daniel home from baseball games.  When Scott was formally diagnosed with a rare form of peritoneal carcinoma cancer, the St. Henry's community and so many others rallied around the McRae family.    

Because he's Scott and because of his love for life and, especially, his unquenchable love for his family, he underwent rigorous rounds of treatment and valiantly fought his illness for a year and a half.  He never gave up.  

Scott, Tina, and the children have been in my prayers on a daily basis.  Jude and I have talked a lot about Scott at home, especially with our boys, JP and Joe.  I've thought about Daniel so much, too.  My heart breaks for him, for all of them.  Life can be so damn hard sometimes.   

In our last text message exchange, shortly before he died, Scott mentioned the great memories he carried from the WNSL days.  He also told me he loved my family and me, a sentiment I will treasure forever.  As Scott's time in this life was nearing the end, he was selfless enough to tell me he loved my family and me.  That's just Scott McRae.

I was having coffee at 8th & Roast one morning recently, when Mike LaLonde texted me the news that Scott had died.  My first thought was for his wife, Tina, and the children.  Initially, I was overwhelmed with sadness and grief for them and, to a certain extent, I still am.  My next thought, though, was an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  God put Scott McRae in my life and, more importantly, in my boys' lives, and all of us are the better for it.  

While one part of Scott's journey had ended, another part is just beginning.  Scott will be greeted by our Lord, whom I am certain will say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."  I believe that with all of my heart.   

If ever there was a life well lived, it was Scott McRae's.

When I finished my coffee, lost in my thoughts and reminiscences about friendship and baseball games past, I walked outside and got in my truck to go to work.  After I started it and began to pull onto Eighth Avenue, I heard a noise beneath my seat, then felt something roll against my feet.  

I stopped, looked down, and to my surprise, there was a baseball.

I pulled over, stunned.   When I carry the bucket of baseballs in my truck so Joe can take batting practice or get a workout in, the bucket is closed and in the back of my truck.   Even if a baseball fell out, it couldn't possibly roll past the back seat and into the front, because I always have the third row of seats up.  In the seven or eight years I have had my truck, I have never had a baseball find its way into the front floorboard of my truck.  Never.  

How?  Why?  

As I continued to sit in stunned silence, I smiled.  I believe in signs.  Maybe you do, too.  They're rare but they exist.  To me, anyway.  

I believe God sent me a sign that morning.  Scott is with Him.  He's fine.  Tina and the children are going to be okay.  In fact, everything is going to be okay.  

Later that week on Friday night, in advance of middle school baseball tryouts at MBA, I took Joe to D-bats for a workout.  As always, it had been a relatively crazy week at work.  It was so nice to be with Joe, throwing the baseball, doing what I love and what he loves, together. 

As I was throwing batting practice to Joe, I noticed he was early, swinging way ahead of my pitches.  As a result, every ball he hit would have been a foul ball on a baseball field.  I stopped, stepped out from behind the protective screen, and walked toward Joe.  He met me halfway, batting helmet on and bat in hand, looking up at me expectantly, waiting for instruction.

I put my arm around Joe's shoulder and said to him, quietly, "let it travel."  He smiled, looked up at me, and finished my next sentence.  

"Trust your hands."

I nodded, smiled, and held Joe's gaze for a long moment.  We were thinking the same thing.  It was a moment I will never forget.  Then, I walked back to my spot behind the screen and took a deep breath.  

This time, I heard it in my mind, in Scott McRae's voice, plain as day.  

"Trust your hands."

That's what Scott always told the boys during batting practice or a game, if they were anxious and out in front of the ball.  Those three words reassured whichever boy Scott was talking to at any given time.  They carried so much weight for the boys in all of the best ways. 

"Trust your hands." 

Don't be nervous.  You're good enough.  Trust your instincts.  You can find a barrel if you wait on the pitch just a split second longer.  You're ready for the moment. 

As I've said many times, it's not about baseball.  It never was.  Baseball is life.  What Scott and I taught the boys on the baseball field are lessons and traits we want them to take into life, and they will.  Confidence.  Competitiveness.  Resilience.  Attention to detail.  How to be a good teammate.  All of those things and so many more.    

What I want Tina to know, and what I want Daniel and the girls to know, too, is that Scott McRae will live on in our lives long after he's left us.  Why?  Because I will hear his voice, talking to our boys on the baseball field, quietly instructing them, encouraging them, teaching them.  Because those boys will hear his voice, throughout their lives, on the baseball field and off, instilling confidence in them to do whatever it is that needs to be done.  He taught them to believe in themselves, especially in challenging times.  

"Trust your hands."