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The time our left fielder got locked
in a Dairy Queen bathroom during a post game celebration. The
time I handed a protective cup to our new catcher and he thought
it was an oxygen mask. The time a T-baller cleanly fielded a
grounder, picked it up and tossed it to his mom, who was sitting
behind third base reading Gone With the Wind. For something that became more than a decade-long family
affair, it had begun casually enough. While watching one of my
5-year-old son's T-ball games in 1985, a manager asked if I
would coach second base. "Uh, second base?" "Yeah. At this level you need coaches at
second base or the kids will forget to take a left and wind up
at Safeway." So I coached second base. And before long, our
family's summers revolved around a diamond: me coaching, my
wife, Sally, keeping score, and the boys playing. Like the
Israelites trudging out of Egypt, we hauled our equipment, lawn
chairs, video cameras and 64-ounce drinks from ball field to
ball field, week after week, summer after summer. The time our right fielder turned
up missing during a championship game, only to be found at the
snack bar eating licorice and flirting with girls. The time we
showed up at an empty field, only to discover that I'd read the
schedule wrong and our game was actually 10 miles away.
The time I explained to my
fifth-grade team that, because we'd given up 89 runs in the last
four games, we needed to set up a defensive goal. "It's a
six-inning game," I explained. "Let's just try to hold them to
12 runs per game. Two per inning. Can you do that?" Silence.
Then my philosophical right fielder spoke up. "Coach," he said,
"do we have to give up the runs even like that, or could we like
give up all 12 in the last inning?" Our teams were more than a collection of kids. They were
extended family, some of whom would end up sleeping overnight
and going to church with us. And some of the boys desperately
needed that. One year, of 15 players, only five had a mother and
father living together under the same roof. Once, a boy missed
practice because his aunt had been murdered. And I can't count
the number of times I took kids home because nobody came to pick
them up. But I've always remembered the advice I heard at a
coaching clinic: "Who knows? The six hours a week you spend with
a kid might be the only six hours he actually feels loved." As a
Christian, what a wonderful opportunity to be salt and light,
even if all the memories aren't of homers and humor. The out-of-control coach who
pushed me off the field. The kid who didn't get picked for my
team firing a splat gun at our left fielder. The father who
dropped off his son, Willie, and told him to get his own ride
home; he and his girlfriend were going to a tavern to throw
darts. We went into extra innings that afternoon, and the man's
son played the game of his life, going all nine innings at
catcher and making the game-winning hit. We tried to make it more than just baseball. With help from
our sons, we established a team newspaper. A few times, I'd put
candy in a sack at second base and let players dig in every time
they threw out a runner. (Best defensive practice we ever had.)
Sally was our DH - designated healer - with her ever-present
cooler of pop and packages of frozen corn for sprained ankles
and bruised arms. Once, we had pizza delivered to the ball field
just after we'd lost to a team with one of those scream-and-yell
coaches. I think we had more fun that night than the team that
won. The time we won with only eight
players. The time Michael, a friend of my youngest son, spent
the night at our house and played hours of backyard baseball,
the rules stipulating that you must run the bases backward. The
next morning, in a regulation game, Michael hit a hot grounder
and promptly took off - for third base. Over the years we won games, we lost games, and we lost
baseballs -- zillions of them. But for every ball we lost, we
gained a memory. As a family, we laughed together, cried
together, got dusty together - as if each of those hundreds of
games was a microcosm of real life, which it was. A weak-hitting kid named Cody
stroking a three-run double and later telling his mom, "I'm
trying to stop smiling, but I just can't." My oldest son
becoming my assistant coach and reaching a few kids in a way
that I could not. Kids I coached as third-graders now taller
than I am. And, of course, the night we were going to win the
city championship. But for the first time in two months, it
rained. Instead of playing on a field of dreams with perfectly
straight white lines and a public address system, some official
handed us a bunch of medals and called us co-champs. Later that
night, after the postseason pizza banquet, the restaurant
manager approached me, broom in hand. "Excuse me, but are you
the coach of the Washington Braves?" "I sure am," I said,
figuring he was going to pull me out of my doldrums by
congratulating me on the co-championship. "Coach," he said,
handing me the broom, "your team trashed the indoor play room.
Wanna help sweep?" Two sons. Twelve seasons. Hundreds of games. As a family, we
had shared them all. But what, I wondered, had we missed in the
process? What had we given up in order to pursue what some might
see as trivia? Nothing. Because whether your family is together at baseball
games or camping trips or rodeos or dog shows or soccer
tournaments or swim meets, the common denominator is this:
families together -- a rarity in our busy times -- making
memories. Learning lessons. Sowing seeds that can be nourished
only by time. Regrets? Only one. I wish Willie's father had considered his
son more important than a game of darts. He missed seeing his
teammates mob him after making the game-winning hit. The time a tall third baseman was
making fun of my 4-foot-9 son at the plate -- until my son
nearly took his head off with a line-drive double. My oldest son
proudly posing for pictures with his grandparents after the team
won a city championship. The time he played his final game and
walking to the car afterward, it hit me like a line drive in the
side of the head. This was it, I'd never coach him in baseball
again. Dusk was descending. It was time to head for home where my
family -- the boys were now 17 and 15 -- would be. As I slung
the equipment bag over my shoulder and walked down from the
stands, I noticed a young father and his son playing catch
between short and third. I smiled slightly and headed for the
car, leaving behind plenty of lost balls for others to find. (c) Bob Welch. Reprinted from "A
Father for All Seasons" (Harvest House, $9.99) with permission
from the author. Bob Welch is the Features Editor for the
Register-Guard newspaper in Eugene, Oregon and kindly allowed
the MBA to reprint this story. He can be reached by e-mail at
bwelch@guardnet.com
P.O. Box 456, Madison, AL 35758 www.MadisonBaseball.org
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Final
Season