April 14, 2013
36 of 65
Call Me “Coach”
Sports for children begin at such an early age! Our son Michael began playing organized baseball while still in kindergarten. We enrolled him in Jefferson County’s tee ball league – a form of the game in which the ball is placed on a stationary tee in front of the batter, who is permitted to swing until he hits the ball. Meanwhile, members of the opposing team move around the field chasing butterflies, playing soccer with their mitts, some even waiting for a ball to be hit their way.
Once the ball is hit, the batter runs to first, then second, then third – or perhaps to third, then second, then home – or perhaps to the pitcher’s mound. It doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. It was Michael’s kind of game and he enjoyed it.
As his 1st Grade year came to a close, another season of tee ball began. A few of the kids, and especially some parents, were more serious than the previous year. Still, most of us were happy we could sit out in the sun watching fielders throw their gloves into the air to try to catch them and batters stick a tongue out the side of their mouth as they swung from their heels, perhaps missing the ball but at least hitting the tee.
The next year, games became more intense. Tees were no longer used – it was “coach pitch” baseball. The coach of each team was required to pitch to his own players while the other team was in the field for defense. We enrolled Michael and he anxiously awaited the start of the season. One evening, though, we received a telephone call from the baseball association telling us there were not enough coaches for the number of players who had registered. There would be no team for Michael unless additional coaches could be recruited.
I told Michael the bad news, which disappointed him tremendously. He is quite intelligent, though, and quickly had a solution. He told me that I could coach. Perhaps I could, though it had been 15 years since I last played in a softball league, and even longer since any kind of organized baseball. Perhaps I could, though I felt I would not have the necessary time. Perhaps I could, but – but nothing! Michael saw that I was only making excuses to avoid doing something he believed that I should.
I telephoned the president of the association and volunteered to coach. He graciously and readily accepted my offer, turning my evenings and weekends into non-stop coaches’ meetings, coaches’ clinics and finally practice, which led to games.
I asked the parents of my players to meet with me before the first practice. I told them that I would work with the kids on fundamentals, I would let each of the kids play in the infield and the outfield in every game, and it was not important whether we won or we lost. They all said they agreed with my non-competitive approach, though some said it with their fingers crossed.
Besides showing them how to line up their knuckles to hold a bat, how to make a complete arc with their arm when throwing and to use two hands to catch a ball, I tried to teach my team things like sportsmanship and visualization.
Visualization? Yes. I told them that no matter what position they were playing, before each pitch they should imagine the ball coming to them and picture what they would do with it.
I felt sorry for the team when it came to hitting. As I said, this was coach pitch. I was the person pitching to them. I was not allowed to throw underhand; it had to be overhand. It is more difficult than you might imagine to throw gently overhand to a very short person with an extremely small strike zone. Nevertheless, we made it through the season, winning a few and losing a few more.
I liked everyone on the team and wanted to stick with them, so I coached again the next year. Finally they were old enough that there were no more tees, no more coaches pitching. One of them had to pitch, and everyone had to bat against the pitcher from the other team. I kept to my philosophy and did not care if we won or lost;however some of the players and many of the parents seemed to think winning was important.
The season began fairly well. I had two decent pitchers and we were competitive with other teams in the league. We lost some of the competitiveness when one of my pitchers, who was spending the summer with his divorced father, had to leave the state because of a change in the father’s work. “Darn,” I said.
At one practice, I noticed a boy named Daniel was simply not paying attention to anything the coaches said and was a bit disruptive. I asked him to run laps around the field so the others could concentrate. After practice, the boy’s father explained that Daniel had attention deficit disorder and had been taken off his medication for the summer. I felt I had been harsh and tried to think of a way to deal with the situation. Before the next practice, I took Daniel aside and asked if he would like to be our catcher. He thought it would be great fun. As catcher, he was actively engaged during each pitch, his ADD no longer a hindrance.
At another practice, our best shortstop was struck in the face by a line drive. He was taken to the emergency room with a broken nose, after which his mother decided that his season was finished. “Darn.”
Our family moved out of the county, to the mountains, in the middle of the season. Still, Michael and I were with the team until the end. Again, we lost more games than we won, but it was mostly fun.
The next year, Michael was excited to play on a new team in Clear Creek County. I volunteered to coach, if there was a need. The man coaching Michael’s team was a rookie, and said he would be glad to have my help as an assistant. Before the first practice, he gathered the parents together and explained that he had coached little league football for two years and his teams had won the league championship. He promised to bring the same intensity and winning ways to this baseball team.
He was the kind of coach who yelled and berated players who made mistakes. He did not want my advice or to listen to my philosophy, so I told him I would rather not coach. That was fine with him. A couple of practices later, the coach was yelling and criticizing players, and I lost my composure. I very loudly announced, “This sucks” as I walked onto the field and told Michael we were leaving. I upset and I embarrassed my son, but I didn’t hit anyone.
I called the league president and explained the situation. He said there was another team on which Michael could play, if that coach would approve. I spoke with the coach, and he accepted Michael. The problem was, two games had already been played. The new coach knew nothing of Michael’s abilities or weaknesses. Michael started on the bench in that third game and did not play until the very late innings. When he finally got to bat, he hit the first pitch for a triple. He was accepted by everyone and I think he enjoyed the season more with me in the stands instead of the dugout
My baseball coaching career was over. I think Cooperstown should be calling me soon for induction.
If the Baseball Hall of Fame doesn’t call you it will be a travesty.
I never cared for the win-at-all costs, aggressive individual, whether they were coach or boss or peer. It always seemed to involve a fundamental lack of respect for others as far as I was concerned.
I liked basketball, and played playground ball whenever I could.
My senior year at AWHS I tried out for the team and both Coach McKendry and Coach Bethel had good things to say about my skills and told me they’d like to see what I could do with the team. But I’d just sort of popped up on the radar – I didn’t even try out until that year – and didn’t know the drills or plays, so they sent me to practice with the junior varsity. It didn’t take long to get tired of that. I loved basketball. I did not like drills, nor did I like practices where your opponents were “playing to win” by shoving, tripping and just generally ignorant of the potential for real fun. “Competitive sport” didn’t stack up well against sport for the joy of it as far as I was concerned. I went back to the basketball I liked. The playgrounds.
The playgrounds were a great place to play for the joy of it, and there it was easy to compliment someone on the opposite team for a great move during play. Skill was rewarded with oohs and ahhs and acknowledged selflessly, and mean or aggressive foul play usually, sooner or later, met an “unintentional” elbow under the boards or an “errant” hot pass to the face. Every once in awhile somebody just plain got slugged, but it was always earned with dirty play by the slugee. On the playground karma ruled. Joy returned joy, and selfishness got hammered. There was justice there. I loved it.
Playground ball introduced me to “the zone,” that frame of mind when time slows down and awareness of what’s happening around you approaches omniscience, where you know where everything and everybody else is, and movement is a dance without effort. I was only in the zone twice playing basketball, but later in my career as a carpenter there were times when that effortless fluidity and economy of motion took hold as I measured and marked and scribed and cut and stacked and nailed. It was pure joy.
My first basketball “zone” happened in Arvada. I was a junior at AWHS and playing in an after-school game at a local elementary school playground. I took the ball off the boards at one end, and on my way down the court I felt an exultant joy about how great it all was, and I realized that I knew where everybody was on the court, even the ones behind me, and I knew which way they were moving and where they were going to be, and at the same time I felt like the ball and I and the asphalt court and the players were all cooperating completely with each other. It was so cool… A moment of Satori, found on pavement under an open sky.
The other time happened down in Denver on one of the “serious” inner-city courts. By that I mean that everybody on the court was pretty good at it, and if you wanted to play there you needed to be able to, well… play. But it was egalitarian, and if you stood watching long enough sooner or later the attrition rate would leave a hole on the court and when that happened you could get a try-on of sorts. Eventually I got in the game.
I played out in front, at guard, because I was short. I had to keep moving because the defenders were quick, had fast hands, and could relieve you of the ball like a pickpocket But I could pass and my team mates could move, so I did a couple of good things, found some acceptance from the players, and the nervousness of having to prove myself went away and I started enjoying the game.
I stayed out in front, because it was suicide under the boards. I remember one guy was about 6′-6″ and built like a rail except for his elbows and knees, which looked like bowling balls. He’d go up for a rebound like a rocket and on the way down shake himself like a dog, and if one of those knees or an elbow caught you it would relieve you of some memory and a couple of IQ points. But it was fun, and it was one of those games where everybody was having fun and playing with skill and earning appreciation when they did something great.
The zone comes unbidden. It’s one of those things that, if you tried to control it or get a handle on it or understand it and use it, you’d fail. It just happens. You’ve probably experienced the same thing at certain times when you were running. Everything fits, everything works, and there’s a feeling of joy and exultation there.
I went in for a rebound. I saw everything, felt where it was all going, where everybody was, and I went into the thrashing machine under the bucket and just soared, and got that ball. I came down in slow motion, tucked, and then unfolded back up into a thin tunnel in the thrashing arms and legs and bodies around and above me. The timing for all of it was critical, and I felt like I had all the time in the world to do what I was doing. As I uncoiled for the shot everybody around me left the floor at the same time to block it, and at the top of the shot they all found – empty hands. Without looking, as I left the floor, I had passed the ball behind me through the scrum to a team mate. I still remember the sound of everyone coming down after that fake. It was like thunder. And after that, silence, and then the single swish and snap of the net as my teammate slam-dunked the ball above us.
It was great. Everybody just roared. The guy I passed to said it was like the ball just magically appeared in his hands. It had. The zone IS magic.
My basketball career is over, too. But the zone is eternal. I wish there were more coaches like you. I think kids would have a much better chance of learning what the zone is if they were taught about the joy of sport instead of winning.
I also think the world and humanity would have a much better chance of success if they pursued the holistic joy of being connected to all, like it is in the zone, instead of pursuing victory at the cost of others.