“I want you to remember this…”

I have been a participant in baseball most of my life-even up until a few years ago in a 60+ senior league. I often say, I am currently in my seventh retirement as a player, most recently in 2016. My love for the game is in the details, the way I still get a boost from things like gripping a baseball, and the simple pleasure of throwing it and watching it go where it was intended to go. Connecting while batting with little or no vibration right on the sweet spot works, too.

My introduction to baseball was from watching my brother, Larry. He was very good, and I wanted desperately to be as good. Mom could testify to my dedication. I would spend nearly every summer morning throwing a hard rubber baseball against our brick garage: THUMP…… THUMP ….THUMP… early and often. I would literally spend hours creating scenarios of real game situations, and acting them out. I eventually wore those practice balls smooth. All that racket had to drive Mom crazy, although she never complained to me.

Many thanks to the coaches that showed me some of the tricks of the pitching trade. Larry, of course, taught me to throw my first curveball. My early efforts at a curveball resulted in a big side-arm roundhouse pitch that I would sling, mostly for show as it turns out, but I could throw it for strikes. Batters rarely even swung at it. The key to my game then (and later, come to think of it) was winning over umpires. Hall of Famer Greg Maddux turned that into an art form.

Terry Ashby, my manager on the Mets in Babe Ruth League gave me my first chance to really learn how to pitch, by throwing me out there at age 13 against 15 year old players, and leaving me out there to work things out for myself on the mound. Many of you know T.A. His baseball pedigree is unquestioned, and his upbeat attitude and demeanor helped me immeasurably to get through some very tough games.

One time pitching for the Mets against the Braves, I was cruising. I had a shutout and a big lead until late in the game when I became my own worst enemy by becoming inexplicably wild. I eventually allowed the Braves to come back, and then to take the lead. It was hot, and I felt tired and thirsty, and I remember wanting to quit. My body language must have been pitiful. I had noticed that T.A. was visibly frustrated, pacing the dugout and he finally came out for a mound visit. I started to hand him the ball thinking he was taking me out. Instead, our conversation went a different way. He said that no, he was not there to take me out. He next told me that I was the reason we would likely lose this game. That was the truth, unvarnished. He then told me that in situations like this, I needed to reach back for something extra and learn how to finish and win games like this when you are not your best. Finally he said these words, burned into my memory forever: “I want you to always remember this game, this conversation, and these (bad, defeatist) feelings you’re having.” Thanks for this, my friend. I do remember. Terry thought enough of me to want me to be better. I have never been one for excuses since.

It was Central High School Coach Dale Meier, however, who showed me all the technical things to maximize the effectiveness of my pitches. Things like: winding-up in control, settling on one arm slot for all my pitches, finding a balance point to keep my body in control, how to throw a slider, how to use finger placement to maximize use of baseball seams for a variety of pitches and finally, pitching strategy. The benefits of having an ex-pro baseball pitcher as a pitching coach are obvious. Most importantly, however, he was charismatic, a great teacher who treated us with respect. He was patient with this young lefthander wanting to get better. My senior year in high school was my best, and Dale is the reason. I was having a very tough year for reasons unrelated to baseball, and simply put, his confidence gave me my much needed redemption. Dale’s influence with the Cardinals resulted in me getting scouted in a game we won at Fox High School. When I told him I was set on going to college, he worked hard, successfully, to get me a baseball scholarship offer to play for Hi Simmons and Gene McArtor at Mizzou. I was eventually encouraged by others to go south if I really wanted to play college ball, and walked on at Southern Methodist, then in the old Southwest Conference.

Toward the end of my senior high school season, we faced the Jackson High School Indians in the finals of the sub-districts at Capaha. We had already beaten them earlier that year: fellow lefty and senior Bob Garner had shut them out at Jackson, 4-0. Bob would finish the season with a perfect 0.00 era in 24-plus innings in four starts. Playing them at Capaha would give us an advantage, but we knew this was a scrappy bunch of athletes from playing them in football that year.

I pitched OK, not great. It was a damp, cool overcast day, and the ball felt very heavy. I found myself pitching into and out of jams the whole game. Indian outfielder Dave Riney seemed to me to be on base every inning, but he couldn’t be, could he? Jackson’s pitcher, Terry Bazzell, was very good that day, and of course he was pitching in the same lousy conditions. The game was a nail biter; we were tied 2-2 going into the seventh (last) inning. In the top of the inning, Jackson loaded the bases with two outs. My elbow was chirping at me, and my grip on the baseball was becoming weaker by the pitch. The ball got even heavier. Reach back for something extra when you are not at your best, TA had said. The count went to 3-2, and the hitter fouled off the next three straight pitches, all strikes, all fastballs. I took another deep breath, knowing a ball was a run and a possible loss. The next pitch was a borderline pitch, but too close to take and thankfully, the ump, Roger Williams, thought the same and called him out.

I left the field in a rush of adrenaline, and Coach Meier met me on the way to the dugout. He was not one to do that, and he kind of caught me off guard. He looked me dead in the eye, and asked me if I was tired. My first response: be truthful. I said “yes, but I’m ok to pitch. I want to finish this.” Apparently, my tired eyes betrayed my words. I was toast. He knew it. I knew it. The Jackson Indians knew it. He took me out. We would go on to lose 3-2 in extra innings. As noted before, no excuses, and no one’s fault, it was just Terry Bazzell’s day. Terry would go on to pitch for SEMO and the Capahas and become a long-time HS coach in Hannibal, MO.

All of this to point out some things I have learned from baseball. Things like learning from mistakes, and doing your best even when you aren’t playing well. Things like throwing off discouragement, and bouncing back from defeat. Finally, a thing like learning to be coachable. I have been blessed by excellent coaches, especially in my youth.