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.