Memories of Baseball (Vol. 1)

Recently, Thomas McDaniel and I had a telephone conversation, followed by an e-mail exchange, about how much we have enjoyed coaching our sons and their friends over the years.  Thomas in basketball with Pike, Joe, and their crew, and me in baseball, first with JP and, later Joe.  

The Bucket Squad and the Dodgers.  It was quite a run for both teams.  

I have been feeling especially nostalgic lately, as Pike, Joe, and their teammates have begun to wind down their time playing together on the Bucket Squad.  More and more, I have found myself missing my baseball coaching days tremendously.  Right about now, we would be in the middle of all-star baseball, playing every weekend at a quaint old ballpark in another small town.  Donelson.  Mt. Juliet.  Lawrenceburg.  Lewisburg.  I loved every one of those ballparks.  We'd be practicing two or three days a week, too.  All baseball, all the time. 

My friend, Audrey, sent me a photo of her son, Huck and Joe, with me, after the boys won an all-star tournament title in Donelson.  They played for Scott McRae, who died this winter, far too young.  I love the photo.  Huck and Joe are so happy and so innocent, as they point their championship rings toward the camera.  

I telephone Audrey after she sent me the photo to thank her for it.  I told her how much I had enjoyed coaching Huck.  One of my all-time favorites.  Emotional but, damn, he cared so much . . .  about how he played and how the team performed.  I'll take a kid who is emotional and cares every time, because that's coachable.  I can teach him how to dial it back but it's much more difficult to teach him to care and to compete.  

Audrey told me that on several occasions, she has overheard Huck telling his travel baseball teammates on the Redbirds, "Coach Phil would never let that happen."  Or, "here's how Coach Phil would do it."  

I mean, damn.  That made me so happy.  

All the practices in the spring, summer, and fall of years past.  All the baseball games.  All the e-mails to parents.  All the conversations with my assistant coaches.  It was all worth it.  Every single second I spent coaching baseball.  All of it.  It was all worth it.

I only wish I could do it again.  

Maybe it's the time of year or the fact that a couple of weeks ago, I watched so many of the boys I coached graduate from high school.  Maybe it's that JP is 18, a rising senior, and leaving on Monday for three weeks in Tasmania as part of an MBA exchange program.  Maybe it's because I turn 60 years old in less than a month.  

For whatever reason, I find myself longing for another baseball season to coach my sons and their friends.  One more season.  It's like an ache that won't go away.  It's palpable.  Lately, once a day something will remind me of one of my teams, one of my players, or call up a memory of a long ago baseball practice or game.  A win.  A loss.  A lesson learned, by a player or more often, by me.

Every boy I ever coached taught me something and enriched my life in some way.  Every single one.  And I'm grateful for the memories.  So grateful.