A Good Man

The first pitch had already been thrown when I arrived. I hurried to the dugout where the head coach was waiting for me. He handed me my cap with the team logo. And welcomed me to my new assignment. I was back where I belonged. On a baseball diamond. As one of his assistants. 

But this is not a tale about me. Rather it is of the person who wrote me earlier in the day, extending the invitation that I gladly accepted. 

I have known this young man since the moment he arrived on this planet well over four decades earlier. And in all that time he has remained without change. In the best way possible.

He is wholly aware of my love for this sport. He, along with his younger brother, his dad and my two kids, attended Yankee games together throughout his adolescence. He heard my endless banter with his father, cheering on the pitcher in moments of glory (the best hurler ever) and demanding the manager remove the bum from the mound when the very next pitch turned sour.

My passion for baseball has long been falling off my fingers onto the pages of my blog. The blog he reads and then sometimes reaches out to me with praise for pieces that have the most meaning for him.

He is unceasingly, unfailingly, nice, polite, kind and enthusiastic. And throughout this ballgame he was all this. He encouraged his young players (10 and 11) through their rough patches, applauding effort even if the result was not as hoped. He was relentlessly optimistic and it translated into a dugout that was alive with laughter, music and joy.

He brought me into all of this for one night, and more if I so choose, because of the qualities he possesses. He understands my passion and wanted me to share in what he has been experiencing, what he has been creating. Knowing how I would so deeply appreciate it.

Throughout the game we stood side by side, chatting about his philosophy of managing, about what his goal was for these kids, about living and breathing a sport  for which he, and now his son, have a deep and abiding love.

As the game unfolded, he asked if I wanted to coach first or third for an inning. I declined, secretly fearing I would cost the team an out or a run with my inept effort. He took the time to introduce me to the other assistants as his uncle (I am not), as a person with unparalleled knowledge of the game. And when the contest ended and the team huddled together in the outfield grass, he invited me along, told the team who I was, exaggerating the extent of my value, and asked if I had anything to say to the squad. Which, of course, I did.

As we left the field, my wife, who was there watching the game and watching me, joined us. The coach called his son over to take a picture with my wife and me. To memorialize the event and as a way of expressing his thanks to us for appearing.

I was made to feel like a star this evening. Like I was special, deserving of the honor bestowed upon me. In the end, the team lost. But when I think back on what transpired here what will stand out for me is not the hits and errors, the strikeouts or even the final score. What I will hold close to my heart is the gift I was given by a person of fine character and great worth. Not just a good coach. 

A good man.