The Bench Coach

I have become Don Zimmer.

Zimmer was a baseball lifer, a player, manager and then, in the final act of a very long career, a bench coach.

He might best be recalled for getting thrown to the ground by Pedro Martinez when he rushed on to the field to take part in a brawl that had erupted between the Yankees and the hated Red Sox. Zimmer was 72 at the time. Which happens to be my age at the moment of this writing. Common sense clearly does not necessarily elevate with advancing years.

Zimmer in his role as bench coach appeared, as far as the eye could see, to have only a solitary role: to keep the manager, Joe Torre, company. He did not provide counsel to the players, did not coach hitting, pitching, running or fielding. He did not appear in the first or third base coaching box. He simply sat there, looking like a puffy version of his earlier self, watching the same game as the fans in the stands. And occasionally chatting with the man in charge of the team.

When last I left you on the baseball diamond I had been given a role as occasional assistant coach of a group of 10 and 11 year old boys. Today was my follow-up appearance. And, as with my first effort, I did little more than stand next to the manager ruminating on everything from the threatening clouds to the good and not so good of the pitching staff. Not so much those toiling here, but rather of the Bronx Bombers.

I don't know if Torre leaned on Zimmer for strategical advantage or merely to ponder the meaning of the universe. Maybe he felt that by proximity and osmosis the sum of Zimmer's knowledge accumulated over a half century in the bigs would translate into an extra base here or an extra run there.

In response to my contribution, the team I was now watching played a wonderful contest, soundly defeating their opponents and advancing to next weekend's championship game 

When the team met after the last pitch, the manager called me their good luck charm and the players, as one, asked me to come for their last contest. Even though I had done less than nothing to deserve such attention and praise.

Unfortunately I will not be able to attend. Which may well be a good thing. For if a brawl should occur during that game and I felt compelled to rush in where only  fools tread I feel certain I would end up as did poor Mr. Zimmer. I would rather be remembered as I was today, a bench coach of great and wondrous merit. 

Even if I have not a clue as to what that means.