More Than A Game

I’ve never claimed to be a journalist.

Yes, I’ve worked in the “media” for the last quarter century, but the more you learn about the media, the more you learn that there are very few journalists left.

The new goal of the new media is plain and simple, promote and make money.

If you happen to break some significant story along the way, good for you, as long as you get ratings or sell papers.

My training, to not-be-a-journalist, began all the way back in high school, when I worked for the school newspaper...

... at the same time I played on the school baseball team...

... while writing the articles for the school newspaper...
... on the school baseball team.

If that’s not journalism, then I don’t know what is.

I was the guy who wrote the article when the third baseman made seven errors in one game.

Of course that third baseman was me.

Shockingly, there was no mention of any of those errors in the article.

Not journalism.  Check.

The reason I bring this up, is that I’m about to not be a journalist when writing about my son’s latest baseball game.

I'm going to be a dad.  A very proud dad.

This was no ordinary baseball game.

This was our chance to face the undefeated first place team.

And in the 11-year old Triple-A league, EVERY game matters, especially for the coaches.

I am in my second season as an assistant coach for my son’s team, one of the real perks of unemployment.

It’s basically my job to chew sunflower seeds, sit on the bench and hope that my son can carry out my unfinished dreams.

Well tonight, he hit a home run.

Not literally, but just about.

With our team trailing 8-1, the real coach put my son into pitch.

Normally he is the catcher, but he’ll play anywhere, as long as he gets dirty.  

He pitched nearly three innings giving up just one run and a couple of hits.

Meanwhile, the other team brought in their ace reliever to close the game.   I didn’t get a good view of his face, but his arm moved like a fifth grade Nolan Ryan.

On most days, you could probably get the car keys ready.

But not today.

We enjoyed a stretch where eight of ten hitters reached base scoring six times to make it a real game.

Then in our next at bat, down two with two out and two on -- the great Vin Scully would say that the deuces were wild -- my son came up to the plate with a chance to be a hero.

And a hero he was.

On the first pitch, he hit a booming fly ball to deep left-center field, landing just out of the reach of the center fielder, scoring both runners to tie the game.

My son’s final inning of pitching was a quick one, recording three outs on six pitches.

That set up the dramatic conclusion to this come-from-behind victory when we scored the game-winning run with two outs in the bottom of the inning on a double that landed just inside fair territory.

To paraphrase Harry Caray -- Bears Win, Bears Win.

Since we joined this team four years ago, we have had plenty of wins and plenty of losses, but the experience has been incredible.

We play for a coach who is not trying to make the next eight or nine or ten year old Barry Bonds, but rather he is trying to give each and every player on our team the opportunity to play high school baseball.

He teaches them the game.   He teaches them the signs.   He teaches them how to be a baseball player.

And why not.  In his previous life he was a high school teacher AND a high school baseball coach.

At not just any high school, but Columbine High School, circa 1999.

As his luck would have it, he was off campus exactly 11 years ago, when Columbine became the most famous high school in the world, for ALL the wrong reasons.

Our coach is one of the most caring and pleasant gentle men you will ever meet.

We are so lucky to call him our coach, but I feel even more fortunate to call him a friend.

But even with our great relationship, I have only had the guts to bring up the events of April 20, 1999 just one time.

We talked briefly about how he was at a seminar that day, the day that high school changed forever.

Grease was no longer the word.  Help was.

He’s moved on from Columbine, but I doubt Columbine could ever move on from him.

How could it.

When my son returned to the dugout after his game-tying hit, I gave him a hug.

To him, it was a sign that he had done well on the baseball field.

To me, it was a hug.  With my son.

If we learned anything from that most tragic day, it was hopefully to hug our kids.

It’s amazing what the game of baseball can teach you.

Final score, 10-9.   Good guys.

Game On

Now that spring has sprung, it’s time for the return of my favorite sport, baseball.

It used to be Major League Baseball.

Then it was Fantasy Baseball.

But now it’s 11-year old Baseball, as in my 11-year old son’s little league team.

This will be the fourth straight year that he has been with the same team and my son really feels at home.

I guess home is the right way to put it, since he is the catcher.

With three very active kids, we are pretty much involved with sports year round, but baseball seems to hold my greatest interest.

Don’t get me wrong, I love watching my older daughter dance, but no matter how hard I try, I really can’t relate.

If I attempt half of what she is able to do, I will need hamstring replacement surgery.

In both legs.

I also love watching my youngest daughter play soccer, but if I hear one more “that was great” by a parent after their child kicks the ball into their own goal, I will scream.

International soccer players get killed, literally, when they put it in their own net. There is nothing great about that.

Baseball seems to be the perfect fit.

My son loves playing. We love watching.

My son loves talking baseball. I love talking.

Baseball.

We both love the stats and the highlights. My wife loves the nachos.

Pretty much my son and I are addicted to every aspect of our national pastime.

We love watching the games on TV.

We love playing catch in the front yard.

We love the unbelievably realistic video games.

We love the baseball posters in his bedroom.

We also love the history.

When my son was asked four years ago, as a seven-year old, what number he wanted to be, he said 42.

As in 42 for Jackie Robinson.

As one dad on our team told me then (and several times since), his kids don’t even know who Jackie was, no less what he meant to the game.

My son still wears 42.

Ok, now that I’ve made my presentation for the Ozzie Nelson Father of the Year Award, here’s the rest of the story.

I grew up playing baseball. Made the High School team. With somebody pushing me to take more grounders, instead of eating more burgers, I probably could’ve played college ball, somewhere.

I don’t know that I would’ve made it beyond that, but we’ll never know.

I really try my best to NOT live my dreams through my kids, but I definitely know that behind every major leaguer is a boot in their rear end.

It could be the boot of a brother, a father, a mother or a coach, but the bottom line is somebody at some point figured out the right buttons to push to help them get to the next level.

From the time he was five, my son said that he was going to be a major leaguer.

(Of course, we all said that.)

At six he wrote a note, on his own, saying that he needed to go to school so that he could learn how to sign his first baseball contract.

When it comes to school, my wife is very hard on the kids. Why not, she is a teacher.

When it comes to sports, I am very hard on the kids. Why not, I am an athlete at heart who didn’t fulfill his dreams.

I’m by no means abusive hard, by any stretch, but I definitely push.

As much as I try to be supportive, that’s not always the end result.

After a game last year when my son didn't “keep his head in” or “his hands back” or “his knees bent” or whatever it was, I didn't talk to him for the entire car ride home.

All 45 minutes.

Definitely not my proudest moment.

That sound you heard was me being voted off the island.

As a former manager of 50+ people, not related to me, I learned to present constructive criticism with a cherry on top.

As a dad of an 11-year old, related to me, I still haven’t.

But I'm still trying.

I have been very consistent in my feedback -- it's not about the results, but it's about the effort.

My kids don't really know who John Wooden is, but they do know that he said, “Failing to prepare is preparing to fail.”

They’ve heard that one about as many times as “Like A Rolling Stone”, but I’m not sure either one has registered yet.

Like every new year, I am entering this baseball season with renewed optimism.

Optimism that mother nature won’t destroy our schedule.

Optimism that my son will keep his hands back.

But most of all, I am optimistic that this will be the year that I find that perfect balance between dad and coach.

Wish me luck.

P.S. I got an incredibly thoughtful note this morning from a loyal reader who just wanted to make sure that I was ok after Tuesday’s blog, especially since I hadn’t posted a new one since.

Yes I am ok, but yesterday my six-year old daughter wasn’t.

She was home sick from school and she got all of my attention. Good thing I wasn’t at work, huh?

Thankfully it was just a cold and she is much better today and back at school.

As for Tuesday's blog, when I woke up that morning, I wanted to express exactly how I was feeling.

I am far from depressed, but at that moment, I was sad.

I wanted to be as honest as possible and properly represent the miserable feelings that I and perhaps many others like me are having.

This morning’s note was the latest reminder to me of how wonderful people in this world can be.

Getting that email from someone I never met and probably will never meet, was a great way to start my day.

I thank you (singular) and thank you (plural) for all of the support.