Coach

(from my book "A Treasure Chest of Daddy's Adventure Stories" @1997)

Coach 

Baseball fever! Catch it! I love this good old American past time. Nothing better than playing “work up” baseball down at “Zimmer Field,” our neighborhood ball field. Every summer evening Grandma and Grandpa Browne knew where they could find Uncle Paul and Uncle Mike and I. Was I any good at baseball? Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t worry much about being better than the other guys. It was just about playing a little hard ball, hitting a few homers and sliding into home, and keeping the ball from getting lost in the weeds. To quote Roberto Clemente’, “Baseball was very, very good to me” ... at Zimmer field. Organized baseball, however, was a completely different story.

It was the summer of 1970 when a Little League team that I was on endured the toughest season in the history of the Browne family. It came to be known as "The Drought.” It was hot that summer of 1970 - it was so hot that a hot dog didn’t even have to be on the bar-b-que to roast.  Unfortunately, my team wasn’t hot at all. In fact, we were so ice cold that you were in danger of catching frost bite if you watched our team for more than three innings. We were long on balls and short on hits. The Orangemen of “Coast-to-Coast” was our team name, and Grandpa was the “Coach”. It was a team of twelve fourth and fifth graders who wanted nothing more than to win a game, just one. To end the ninth inning with a victory. To enjoy that victory ice cream cone. Just once.  To experience the thrill of victory rather than the agony of defeat. That’s all we wanted, nothing more. Our lineup had Billy Anderson hanging out in right field, Eddie Morgan plugging up center field, Uncle Paul hanging around second base, Brent Bjorn shoring up third base, me getting line drives hit right at me at shortstop and Randy Parr throwing heat from the mound (the ball was hot, his speed was not). What a crew. Our coach saw the potential in each one of us from day one of spring training. We came ready to play, gave 110 percent, gave it our all and played to win - but to no avail.  Night after night we walked off that cold, hard turf, drained, spent, with nothing left to give. Our record didn’t show the sweat and the effort.  We fell short time and time again. There just wasn’t enough innings in a game. After shaking off the loss, we gathered the courage and the strength to try once more, and several days later with hope in our hearts we would run onto the field - could this game be the one?! Alas, it was not to be. Coast-to-Coast ended the season zero wins, thirteen losses! Baseball was not very good to the players of Coast-to-Coast. Sports is not always fair.

Even though the big “Oh fer” has a certain sting to it, I really enjoyed that summer. That season taught me more about sports than any summer ever since. Even as a fifth grader I learned what it was to stick it out, to never give up.  I learned to play just for the enjoyment of the sport.  I learned it was important to always encourage my teammates, to stay positive, work hard and keep improving.  Yep, all these things were taught to me by Grandpa, the Coach. You could never tell what our record was by watching Grandpa. He gave out more “atta boys” than any coach in the league. He made playing fun, even though we had not logged a victory the entire summer. He kept us focused on learning the basics and playing as a team. Sure, winning is important and fun, but let’s face it, some times the other team just happens to be better. Of course, having the other team better thirteen weeks in a row is a little discouraging. But he would always encourage us to keep our chins up, looking ahead to the next at bat, the next inning, the next game. Even the next season.

For the record, although there was one game that came down to the wire, the only lead that we actually held during the entire season was on a night when Grandma Browne was coaching! Grandpa couldn’t make it to the game until the fourth inning, so Grandma started us out. She pitched batting practice, got the ball club warmed up and ready for a big night on the baseball diamond. We played like the winners that Grandpa told us we were. After three innings we were ahead three to one. Yahoo, Coast-to-Coast takes the lead.  Could this be the one?  Would we really be walking off the field victorious? Later that night we found the answer was - NO!  When Grandpa arrived in the fourth inning to take over the helm, the other team rose to the occasion, put on their rally caps and went on to victory. Bummer!

Our only real chance of chalking up a win came against the Green Bombers from General Electric. A real tough ball club with some decent hitters. The Orangemen hung in there the entire game and going into the last inning the ball game was tied. What a game! Would this be the night? Were we going to taste victory that evening, or were we destined for the perfect “Winless” season? Only time and three more outs would tell. Our team was up to bat in the top of the inning.  We needed to squeeze out just one run to go take the lead. Unfortunately their pitcher was throwing heat that night. Our first two batters fanned out, being caught up in the excitement of the moment, their better judgment went south and they struck out swinging. With two outs I came to the plate. The game was riding on my shoulders. Could I take the pressure? Only time would tell. As the first pitch came over the plate, I held back, waiting for just the right pitch. Low and inside! Ball one! The next pitch was down the middle of the plate, a fast ball. I swung a little late and fouled it off. Strike one! I just had to make contact, don’t hit it out of the park (even that is what I wanted to do). Coach just told me to keep my chin down and wait for my pitch. The next pitch was a knuckle ball. I swung that bat so hard and got nothing but air. Swoosh! Strike two! One more strike and the ball game and season would be over. The pressure was on. The pitcher wound up and pitched a big fat fast ball down the middle, just my pitch. I swung hard and connected, hitting a line drive right past the short stop. I sprinted around first base and headed in to second base, sliding in for a double. But wait! The throw to second base sailed high, past the second baseman. I popped up and dashed to third base. The third base coach told me to SLIDE, SLIDE, SLIDE! OK, OK, OK … I slid! Safe! A triple! But wait! The throw into the third baseman was way over his head. The crowd yelled at me to head home to score, a homerun, we would win the game! Get up quick, get up, get up. But I just laid there, not moving an inch. Something was wrong. I was reeling in pain. What the crowd didn’t know was as I slide into third base, my right foot got stuck underneath me. As I slid into third base my knee popped open due to the extreme pressure … and there was a big, huge, ugly gash right on my knee. One you would never, ever want to look at. Coach … Grandpa … came running out and took care of me. The last thing I remember of that game was Grandpa carrying me in his arms to the car and taking me to the hospital. This little baseball player being carried off the field by this big “Coach”, my coach, my Dad. My season was over and I was bummed big time. But my Dad was proud of me, and I tried my hardest in that last game. I spent the night in the hospital and came home the next day with 36 stitches in my knee and a cast around my leg. The rest of the summer was spent in bed or on crutches.

“Oh, what happened back at the game?” you might be asking. Well, I was safe all right at third. In fact the throw to third base was overthrown as well. If I had not been hurt I would have easily made it to home plate for a homerun. Our team would have scored and been ahead in the game, surely win the game with momentum on our side. But with the game tied and two outs, I was replaced with a pinch runner, Billy Anderson. On the first pitch, Billy tried to steal home and was thrown out by ten feet. We lost the game. Again.

What a summer.  
 What a season.   
What a ball club.   
What a Coach. 

I never played organized baseball after that. I ended my baseball career with my biggest hit ever, being carried off the field by the best Coach ever, and coming home with a knee full of stitches.

Early Mornings

(from my book "A Treasure Chest of Daddy's Adventure Stories" @1997)

Early Mornings

I love my Tyler Daves Browne. That little boy is quite a character. There is nothing he does not love about life, nothing … except for most kinds of vegetables and fruits and other healthy foods. But hey, that’s all right in the bigger scope of things. Tyler’s love for his family is what really takes my breath away. Ever since he was a little baby boy he has loved dearly his Mommy and big sister (… and me too!). Then along came his little sister, Rissa Roo. Tyler is so sweet to her. Getting down on her level and playing with her. Oh sure, there are squabbles but they always end in “I’m sorry for -----“, “Will you forgive me?”.

Tyler gets every bit out of life he can squeeze, and he squeezes pretty hard. He loves to learn. I found him at 10:00 at night one July evening in at his desk in his room. With just his lamp on he was hunching over a pad of paper, pencil in hand.  With a stack full of pennies this kid was practicing his arithmetic. I asked him what he was doing. “I want to be the best at math in my first grade class next year”, he calmly replied. The summer was not even two weeks old and this kid was hitting the books. He looked like a college senior crashing for finals in the wee hours of the morning.

Tyler is always full speed ahead. His gear box has no reverse, or neutral for that matter. Now don’t misunderstand me, he can slow down. But his slow down is intentional, either to watch a movie or draw or play in the sand box. Tyler is always doing something, he never gets bored. I really admire that in Tyler because he just enjoys living so much. He is always up for someone to join him in his ventures too. “Sure Dad, you can help me build a tower!” “Sure Dad, I’ll go ride bikes with you!” “Sure Dad, you can help me with a science experiment!” It was always “Sure, ……”. Joining-in gave me a great way to get inside Tyler’s world and get to know him really, really well. It seems the more things that we do together, the smoother things go between us. I’m so glad to have him as a son. A relationship between a father and his son is unique … and my son is unique. In reflection, I think I learn more and more about my Heavenly Father by being a Daddy to Tyler, Caitlin and Rissa.

I was given a special surprise a bit ago that I will never forget. You see, I get up pretty early for work, like 4:30 in the morning.  Early. Most of the year it is dark and quiet that early in the morning. The house is still asleep. At most I might see a hungry cat make their way downstairs. As far as people go, I have the house to myself, which can be lonely, to tell you the truth. I have a usual routine I follow. Shower, breakfast and then some quiet, prayer time and devotional reading. It gets my day off on a good foot, so to speak.

Well, one chilly morning in the winter of 1996, as I was about to sit down on the couch with a hot cup of coffee and my Bible, I hear this pitter patter coming down the stairs. With blanket in tow and rubbing his eyes, Tyler appears around the corner! “Hey, Tyler!”, I whisper. Now my first parental reaction was to give him a kiss and tell him to head back up to bed, lickity-split, and sleep for three more hours. But I didn’t. Tyler just stood there and looked at me with his sleepy eyes and smiled his “Tyler smile”. “Hi dad!” he whispered. I opened my arms and he came running towards me on the couch and I gave him a big daddy bear hug. Quickly he curled up on the couch and wrapped himself in his blanket and nuzzled his head up and under my arm. There he laid, for about forty minutes. He was awake, never falling back to sleep. His head slipped down on my lap and he grabbed my hand and motioned for me to rub his hair. He just looked up into my eyes, and smiled. I just sat there and held him close, stealing every moment I could. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t expect me to do anything except hold and comfort him. After about ten minutes of quiet stillness I realized something that was odd about what was happening. I had never held Tyler like this before. I had never been so still, so calm with him before, at least since he could walk. As a baby, sure. But never since. That is, until now.

For the duration of this time, we just hung out together and watched out the living room window as the sun rose up over the trees. It was like Tyler just showed up for a little cuddle time early in the morning. Just me and him, he didn’t have to share me with anyone at all. I was his. What Tyler didn’t realize was “he” was all mine. I didn’t have to share him with anyone or anything either, no friends, toys, school. During the rest of the day, in order to be with Tyler I have to catch up to him, go at his speed and catch some time when I can. I have to deal with going to work, coming home from work, dinner time, play time, bed time, after bed time, get back into bed time. The pace around our house is fast, which is common for a house full of kids 2, 6 and 8 years of age. So just sitting on the couch with Tyler was great, early that morning, even though it sounds kind of plain and uneventful. It was anything but.

After an hour or so I really did need to get to work. Tyler walked me to the door and waved through the living room window as I drove down the street, off to work. Back to bed he went. The next day Tyler showed up at 5:00 again and sat with me until I left. This occurred a couple more times that first week. Ever since that time, Tyler has been my morning buddy, sitting with me in the wee hours of the day. What a great way for me to start out the day. To spend some quiet time with my son, just him and me and no one else. Nothing much is said, but a lot is communicated. I hold him, he lets me hold him. He looks at me and says volumes with his quiet, gentle eyes. A couple of weeks ago, on an early Friday morning, I was reading my Bible and Tyler was right next to me. When it was time to go I started to get up. Tyler said “Don’t go Daddy. Can you read from the Psalms?” “OK Tyler, of course. How about Psalm 23?” I replied. How could I say no?! Tyler then changed his mind, “No actually, the book of John”. “OK, which is your favorite chapter?”, I said. “No, read the whole book, Dad”, Tyler answered. So I read John chapter 4. He wanted me to read to him, but was very particular. He could have chosen some other book, some other story. Tom Sawyer was right there on the coffee table. He chose God’s word. Now this kind of happening occurs often between me and my son. That’s why I think these times in the morning are God appointed times for Tyler and me, so I take them seriously.

Now he doesn’t always show up.  Sometimes I spend my early morning thirty minutes on the couch alone. Listening all the while for the pitter patter of Tyler’s little feet to come down the stairs and his sleepy eyes to appear around the corner. But he doesn’t always come down. I guess that is all the more reason why I cherish the times he does come down. To sit on the couch together. Me and my son.

I got to thinking that Friday a couple of weeks ago. John 1:12 talks about being children, being children of God.

Yet to all who receive him, to those who believe in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.  John 1:12

Do I come to God the Father in the way Tyler comes to me early in the morning, excited to be spending the wee hours of the morning just with me? Am I excited of spending time alone with my Heavenly Father? Do I look forward to being comforted by the Lord without expectation, without words being spoken, just to be in His presence? I guess I don’t when I think of the look in Tyler’s sleepy eyes turning the corner and his face beaming with a big “Tyler smile”. Tyler has commitment to those early mornings. Sure he could be snoozing in between the warm blankets, but he values being with me so much that he wants to start his day with me. Am I that way with my relationship with the Lord? How many times do I decide to sleep in an extra thirty minutes and eat breakfast in the car, going from sleep to shower to car to work in one giant sweeping motion? The answer is much too often.

It was not until I noticed how I miss it when Tyler doesn’t come down, that I realized how my Heavenly Father must feel. He made me in His image, fatherly emotions and all. He must have those same fatherly emotions as well. I learn so much by being Tyler’s Father, Tyler’s Daddy. I do value my relationship with God, and I want to start each day with Him, before the hustle of the day gets going. In the tone of John chapter one, verse twelve.

Tyler, thanks for coming down early in the morning and spending time together, for sharing quiet times and the stillness of life. As I comfort you with a big arm around your shoulder, or a hand through your hair, just know that there is a bigger arm around both of our shoulders, the Lord’s arm comforting both of us as we spend those wee hours of the morning with the Creator of the morning. I love you, Tyler. I love you, Lord. Life is a great adventure when it starts with the two of you.

Hope When Everything Seems Hopeless

Hope When Everything Seems Hopeless

By Dennis Browne

Ever had one of those days, one of those weeks?

Where it seems potholes jump out of nowhere?

On your road to recovery, to healthy living­­­?

Life was so grand and going so smoothly

And then all of a sudden “life happened” .

Old habits returned.

Old memories reappeared.

Tormented … you can’t shake your past.

Yes, seems like that horrid past has returned.

Again.

Hopelessness.

I’ve been there. Was like I was in a big ravine with no escape.

No trail in sight to bring me back to peace and quiet.

Roots tangling my every step forward.

At the beginning of my recovery journey, seems like I would be in this state of mind monthly, at least.

This recovery stuff seemed hopeless.

I would make what would seem like progress, of dealing with my past.

Of making strides towards wholeness.

Only to be pulled back.

Into the abyss of shame.

Into the bunker I survived in for decades.

Dark and lonely.

My hope had vanished.

Poof.

Month after month I would slide back.

Or so it seemed.

Tired and defeated I wondered what the use was.

Of this recovery stuff.

My old life, maybe, was just fine.

What is “hope” anyways?

A life I was used to.

Living day to day.

Or rather surviving, day to day.

Was good enough.

Upon reflection I looked back at the life I had come from, lived through, and survived.

Decision time. Give up, or push on?

My choice.

Doesn’t healing always come down to a choice?

I ran back to my recovery group.

Ran Fast, too.

The place where I had at least made a tiny step toward a full life

I realized I had no clue what Hope truly was

I sure knew what a life was with the lack of Hope

Hopelessness

No one taught me what Hope was

How to “Hope” for something

How to drem.

I was so busy running from hopelessness

That feeling of uselessness, unwanted, no-good-scoundrel

Dummy, insignificant

Hopelessness I knew

What is hope anyways?

Took me nearly a year of recovery before asking this question.

Are you at that point, too? Never being taught what hope is?

Before I had hope, I was always looking back

Back at the daemons that chased me daily, nightly

Always looking back at my failures

Always back at the emotional pain of my abuse

What I found out was that hope was found in what I could become

I could become someone that was fulfilled

Someone that made a difference.

Valued.

Wow, I could make a difference? News to me.

Was special. Was cherished.

I knew this because someone told me.

Someone described what my future “could be”.

If I put the work in.

And held on, to that hope.

Held on with all my life.

That someone said this with such certainty

Such confidence

I chose to believe

I trusted.

He was my hope.

He knew my name.

He believed in me.

He believed in what I could become.

I liked that.

From that day on I held onto what he said.

I held onto that hope

Looking towards him, instead of back at my past.

Focused on Hope

Hope was alive in me.

Truth be told, he said his Hope was anchored in someone, too.

In the great “I Am”. The “Alpha and the Omega”.

Rock solid, never changing, going nowhere.

I anchored in Him too, as time went by.

I was no good at this, at first.

Slipping all the time, it seemed.

Focusing on hope, meant letting go of what was behind me

I focused on one day at a time

When I thought the road ahead was to, to long

I looked down

Looked down at the one step I was taking that week, that day.

Progress.

Sure I backslid

Fell down and regressed

I would give myself a break.

Grace.

But back up I would get

Focused on Hope

Focused on healing

My hope would never be drowned out by my past life

My life of hopelessness

I was focused on what that person who had hope in me described.

A life for me that was whole, a whole spirit, a whole heart.

Healed.

I give myself grace when I loose hold of hope and fall.

Knowing that Hope always had a hold of me.

Do you  have someone you trust in?

Someone that believes in you, and what you can and will become?

If not search for that person. That person of hope.

Can’t find one? … well you have found one in me.

If you have read this far, shows me you are on track.

I will be that person.

There is hope when all seems hopeless.

Focus and act on the hope that is in front of you.

It will be hard.

Cling to that Hope and never let go.

Hope will never disappoint.

Dennis Browne

DennisBrowne@gmail.com

FB: @dennis.browne.14

IG: @debrowne