Baseball Mothers.

With the start of the 2017 College baseball season less than a week away, I was reflecting back on my baseball playing days.  As a kid I loved baseball.  Read the box scores every morning.  Played in the sandlots and organized ball every chance I got.  Having a Father that loved the game and was excited that I played only fueled my emotion.  Every chance we got he would take me, my brother and whatever neighbor kids we could round up to the sandlot for batting practice.  But that is not the topic of this story. 

Last night while watching the movie, "Sandlot" for the umpteenth time, I recalled the line Small's Mother said to him.  She said she wanted him to go outside, meet other kids, have fun and get into a little trouble.  It got me to thinking of the role the Mothers have in all of the baseball playing boys. 

My Mother didn't throw me or my brother batting practice or hit us grounders.  However, she went to the field and shagged balls as we hit.  I can still see her in the outfield without a glove scooping up ground balls with her skirt.  She was pretty good at it too.  She could whip up a meal in minutes and often had to prepare two or three suppers a day, as we were all on different schedules.  She was a score keeper.  After she passed I found many of those scorecards.  I think she only kept the ones that I did well. 

Later in life as I started coaching my seven and eight year old boys in Little League, I became more aware of the importance of mothers in their baseball son's development.  My first year in coaching I had to draft a team.  Identifying the kids to pick in the early rounds was easy.  The later rounds was tougher.  I recall that first team and my last pick.  I had about ten kids from which to pick.  None had shown any ability at all.  So when it came my turn I selected a little lefty named David Rose.  Why David, you ask?  Well David's Mother, Ginger, had brought him to tryouts.  She was knock down gorgeous. I mean a real beautiful woman.  If her kid couldn't play ball, at least she was nice to look at.  (At this point I will pause and allow female readers to comment on my shallowness and whatever adjectives one would feel necessary to throw at me).

However, the story does not end here.  Ginger was as beautiful inside as she was outside and ended up being my Team Mom.  Byron, her husband, ended up volunteering to be my assistant coach.  We became good friends.  But there is some irony to this story.  We ended up with a pretty good team. David was a real nice kid and tried hard.  We had a pretty good team and made the championship game.  In the last inning of that game we had a one run lead.  The other team had the bases loaded with two outs and their best hitter at the plate.  He hit a line drive to left field and my little lefty with the beautiful Mom made a diving catch to end the game.  What a great draft pick.

The next year I had another pretty good team of eight and nine year olds.  Practices can be a challenge to keep the kids interested and make it fun.  Many of the mothers would bring their kids to practice and wait to take them home. In order to keep it interesting, I told the Moms and kids the next day we were going to have a Mothers vs. kids game.   My second baseman was a kid named Phillip McAbee. A really good player.  He could hit and field. It turned out that one of the mommas was an army brat and had been an All Europe softball player when she was a teenager.   Phillip's Mom was still playing slow pitch softball in Chattanooga.  Needless to say the Mother Team was pretty good.  When Phillip's Mom caught his line drive, putting him out for the second time, he sat down and cried.
I understand Phillip later received a voice scholarship to U of Tennessee.

All the Moms weren't as classy as MY Moms.  I once had to separate two of them from a "Cat Fight" at the Red Bank, TN Dixie League park. 

Two Generation Of Baseball Moms. One is done and the other just starting

Flash forward to the 90's.  By then my kids baseball careers were over and I had become a Lamar University baseball fan.  Sitting in the stands we had the chance to meet a lot of the baseball Moms of the college players.  A handful stand out in my memory.  Bryan Lovelace's Mom and Dad came from California to watch him play.  She would holler at him, "C'mon, Cutie Pie".  A name she must have given him as a toddler and thoroughly embarrassed him as a 21 year old college baseball player.  Everytime he would come to bat she would cover her face and not watch until his at bat was over.

Richard Templeton was a reliever in the mid 90's.  During one particular game when the Cardinals were playing poorly, His Mother got on top of the dugout and started berating the entire team for their poor play.  The Cards came back and won that game.  Mrs. Templeton was credited with the "Save".

As time went on, we began encouraging the Mother's to bring us cookies.  Many obliged.  A couple of Section BB favorites emerged.  Lisa Dziedzic, whose son was invited to the KC Royals spring training camp this year, made all of the games along with about a dozen of her other kids.  She made some outstanding pastries.  Another favorite, Frankie Harrington, also brought some nice treats.  Frankie had two sons, both pitchers that are still in the LU record books.  We got cookies for eight years.  She knew the game and when her boys made mistakes, she didn't cut them any slack. A great fan.

But, the favorite of all time was the Mother of Scotty Diaz.  Scotty didn't pitch many innings in his two years at Lamar, but his parents were always there. They sat behind us in Section BB and she had treats at every game which she enthuastically shared.  It was her desire to see her son pitch more that is still talked about today in Section BB.  Last I heard Scotty had earned his medical degree and is practicing medicine. 

As the new season is about to begin, I am looking forward to cookies from Reid Russell's Mom and the other baseball mothers yet to be named. 

Most of the baseball Mom's don't throw batting practice, play catch,  hit fly balls or call balls and strikes.  But, like my Mother and Ms. Smalls, they are the backbone of a baseball playing kid.  They drive the carpools, wash the uniforms, bandage the scrapes, ice the black eyes.  They root for their kid, worry about an injury, prepare the pregame meals, give up a new dress to have money for a new catcher's mitt, soothe a wounded soul following a hat trick and on occasion mediate with an overbearing Dad.   They spend hours and days in uncomfortable seats when they would need to be doing something else. And, in some cases scoop up grounders with their dress like Ozzie Smith.

Thanks to my Dad I could hit left handed pitchers pretty well, But, thanks to my Mom, I learned to keep score.  That I still do to this day.

Shopping Ain't For Sissies

Due to circumstances beyond by control, I did all of the Christmas shopping this year.  I would usually buy a couple of gifts and watch while everyone else tried to decide what to buy grandkids, how much money to spend and where to go.  This year it was my turn.

I had not been in the mall for nearly ten years.  That streak was to end in 2016.  I had no idea how many stores were in there.  Not to mention how big that structure is once you get inside.  Not only are there a bunch of stores, but there are booths all down the middle.  People tending these business are like the hawkers at the county fair.  They are aggressive and insist you look, listen or taste their product. 

And the people, they were everywhere.  There were some in a hurry.  Some in large groups. Some just sitting there waiting for someone to finish shopping or just there for the entertainment. Some that looked like they got kicked off Duck Dynasty.  Some wearing less clothes than they should. Some in good moods and some not so good. 

The traffic was horrendous.  Vehicles parked everywhere.  I found a reasonable spot at the end of the mall and went in the store entrance where I expected what I was looking for.  Turns out they didn't have it and suggested another store.  No luck there either, By the time I had exhausted all of my leads I was at the other end of the mall.  I must have walked two miles.  Now it was time to find my way back.  I got to the store I had entered and exited to the parking lot.

Now, the real trouble begins.  I forgot where I parked my car.  I looked where I thought it was but no luck.  I was pushing the alarm button on my key chain but no alarm could be heard.  I finally realized that probably wasn't the entrance I came in.  So I walked outside the building and lo and behold there was another entrance.   Finally I found my truck and went home.  I was exhausted.

Shopping ain't for sissies.  Next year I'm gonna learn how to do that on-line shopping thing.

Do Overs

All my young life I always considered myself a pretty good athlete.  I knew I wasn't the best in most of the events I competed, but knew I was competitive and better than most.  When I think back when I competed in baseball, football, basketball, track, motorcycle racing, racquetball and running, it is not the "Hero Moments" that come to mind.  It is those events when the outcome was something less than desirable.  Now that I am old, I am comfortable with sharing some of those disappointing and sometimes embarrassing moments in those sports.

Baseball:
When I was 10 I made the Little League baseball team.  The 12 year olds on the team were big and good.  I was scared of them.  I was happy that I got to wear a uniform and my own hat with a big "O" on it for our team, the Oilers, to school.  Late in the season, my coach, Mr. Bob Kinnear, told me he wanted me to start in centerfield.  I told him I had a sore arm and didn't want to play.  I had six at bats for the season.  Five strike outs and hit into a double play. 

Having gained confidence in my ability and playing regularly, I came to bat in a teenage league with a runner on third.  My coach gave me the suicide squeeze bunt signal with a runner on third.  I squared around to bunt and when the pitcher threw the ball I panicked and took the pitch.  The runner was easily tagged out at home.

Later, in high school I made the varsity team as a sophomore and started at first base.  Being the only underclass man on the team, I was the only object of the hazing.  After walking home after practice and finding out they had put analgesic balm in my underwear, I learned to check them and go commando if necessary.

My junior year I was playing first base when we had a road game against Orange Stark.  There home field was poorly lighted and fly balls looked like half moons when they were in the air.  As fate would have it a high fly pop-up was hit in my direction.  After running around trying to get under it, I missed the ball and it hit behind me.  The next day my Dad told me I needed to get a hard hat if I was going to play first base.

Football

My junior year I had played offensive and defensive end.  My senior year I played only offense.  In the last game of the season we were playing Beaumont High in the final game.  They were not that good and we were handling them quite easily.  With less than two minutes to play in the game we were leading 28-13 and they were backed up to their own two yard line.  I talked the coach into letting me go in on defense.  BHS was running a wing T offense.  The wing back was lined up on my side.  My job was to hit the opposing end, check WB and cover the flat on a pass.  At the snap I felt the wingback start to drift to the flat.  Instantly I sensed a screen pass to him and positioned myself perfectly to defend the play.  The quarterback dropped back, faked a pass downfield and turned and threw it directly to me.  All I had to do was catch the ball and fall down for a touchdown.  The pass went right through my hands.  The WB caught it and ran 98 yards for a TD.

Basketball

My sophomore year in high school, the varsity basketball team won the state championship. They  were big with several players going 6'7" and two more at 6'4".  The next year I was moved up to the varsity.  I had played post in Junior high and on the JV team.  But hadn't grown beyond my 5'11" but still playing post position.  Since all of the "tall" seniors had graduated, we were rather small.  Our two tallest players were 6'2".  One was pretty good and the other was big and strong.  I was riding the pine most of the time.    Coach Jimmy Anders liked me to sit next to him on the bench.  Probably because I would agree with him. We had these warm up jerseys that had a zipper part way down the front.  One game wasn't going too well and Coach Anders got mad at one of our post players.  He jumped up and said, "Wright get in there for Etheridge!".  I stood up and was trying to unzip the warmup, Coach started pulling it over my head and telling me to hurry.  I finally gave up with the zipper and he dang near ripped my ears off.   Although we were defending State Champions, we didn't have a very good year.

Track and Road Racing

Speed I did not have and had no intention of running track.  The junior high track coach convinced me I could be a hurdler.  We had some other good hurdlers but he wanted depth.  We won the junior high championship without my help.  I thought that would be the end of my track career, but Coach Martin convinced me to run junior Olympics in the summer as it would help me in football.  We had a meet in Houston.  About 8 or 9 of us drove over in his station wagon.  We were running late and had to change on the run.  I got there just I time for my heat.  It turned out there were only two of us in the last heat.  The winner went to the finals.  The loser went home.  The guy looked beatable.  The gun went off and I'm ahead at the first hurdle.  My opponent hit the hurdle but kept going.  When it was all over he had hit every hurdle and lost his shoe.  AND, still beat me.

Later in my adult life I started running to improve my endurance for off road motorcycle racing.  Unable to shake the competitive spirit from within, I had started entering 10K road races.  I was usually in the middle of the pack of my age group. Since the results were published in the Sunday Chattanooga paper,  I competed against people I didn't even know who they were, but showed up in the paper.   One race was scheduled in Athens, Tennessee.  They had a two mile race before the 10K. I decided to go "trophy hunting" and run the 2 miler since most of the better runners just ran the longer race.  There were several guys that looked like they may be in my age group.  I started out pushing the pace much faster than I normally ran.  As I entered the final stretch with perhaps a quarter of a mile to go, one guy thought to be in my age group was ahead of me.  I was gaining on him, but I was really suffering.  As I got closer I noticed a handful of my Chattanooga friends that were going to run the 10K standing near the finish line.  My thoughts were they would cheer for me and it would be just enough motivation to pass the guy in front.  As we got close to the finish line they started cheering.  Only problem it was for the other guy.  I didn't catch him.

Racquetball

When I moved to Chattanooga I was working shifts.  I had joined the local YMCA and liked playing racquetball.  It was hard to get a court at night and I started going to the court in the mornings.  I played some older guys that weren't too good.  One time I was there looking for a match and a woman asked me if I wanted to play.  Not having anyone else to play I said sure, figuring I would beat her easily.  After she took off her warm ups, I couldn't help but notice she had legs that would make Earl Campbell proud and biceps I envied.   She beat me like a drum.  While reading the Sunday paper a month later, I noticed a full page feature on a female Georgia State water ski champion.  Yep, it was her.  It was then I realized she was the one that found the "huckleberry".

Off Road motorcycling

While competing in a motorcycle enduro in Anderson, SC, I was doing quite well.  I was positioned to finish high, perhaps win.  With less than ten miles left in the 80 mile event, I was riding up and down hills on a power line right of way.  The hills had erosion ridges that, if hit correctly, made it easy to jump down the hill.  I had passed a Honda at the top of one such hill and just sticking those jumps.

As I hit the front end of a hump I noticed there were two.  The second one would normally been easy to clear while airborne.  I must have panicked before my rear wheel left the ground and I cut throttle, causing the front end of my bike to take a nose dive and flip me over the handle bars.  It must have pretty spectacular as the guy I had passed earlier stopped and asked if I was OK.  While gasping for air I said yes.  He started back up the hill.  In the meantime I started my bike and continued.  At the bottom of the hill I managed to submerge my bike in a small stream filling the cylinder with water.

After pulling it out with an aching rib, I noticed an ambulance coming down the right of way.  I met them, they put a band aid on my nose and I continued on.  Needless to say this was not a trophy run.

Now in my seventies, I'm still competitive, but at a much slower, calmer pace. Now it's just a lot easier to look back at previous failures.

I'm sure that I could come up with some more favorable athletic moments.  But it's always the "Do Overs" that come to mind first.

Pre Game Wee Wees

All of my competitive life I have experienced a problem.  It doesn't seem to matter the event, or in my case, one's age.  I have witnessed many others with a similar issue, but never really discussed it with them.  Is it anxiety, nervousness or poor planning, I don't know. 

I always have to pee right before the start of the event. 

When I was playing football, it never failed.  The urge always occurred after I had gotten completely suited out.  Then you have to remove half of your pads to go.  Once on a bus trip one of my teammates had to go so bad that they had to pull the bus over at a filling station and let him off to go.
The coaches were not happy. 

During my off road motorcycle racing days, I always had to go right before the start.  Again, off with the pads and gloves, stand in line at some cherry flavored Johnny on the Spot and go.  Happened every race. 

Running is no different.  The only exception is that it is easier, but there are more people in line.  This is complicated by the fact that most runners hydrate before the race, requiring more than one emergency visit.  My bladder control hasn't changed over the years.  The same symptoms occurred in my first race in Chattanooga in the '70's and yesterday at the Beaumont Sea Rim Striders annual TurkeyTrot.
                                                                                                                                                             Being a country boy, I have found that Mother Nature can reduce the wait.  Many years ago I was running in the Chickamauga Battlefield Park with friend Bobby Ward.  We were about half way through a long run and all of a sudden he just ran off the road into the woods.  I slowed down and in a few minutes he caught up.  He said he just had to GO! 

Several years ago at the Crystal Beach 5K, I decided to ignore the last minute urge and start the race.  I thought about needing to pee the entire 5K.  When I came through the finish line, I just kept going to the Porta Johns. 

Paraphrasing Jack Nicholson  in the movie, The Bucket List, "Never pass up an opportunity to pee."

The Election Is Over

The 2016 Presidential Election is over, move on.  It was close.  Many insulting things were said. Two controversial candidates battled it out.  But, the system works and we have a new President Elect.  Like it or not, Donald 'Trump is "everyone's" President.

So it is time for all the Hillary supporters to stop whining and the Trump supporters to stop gloating.
It is time to focus on what is best for the country.

It is time for everyone to try to do something positive.  I challenge everyone to do something good every day.  Do it for the good of others.  Go beyond your own person.  Make it a point to do this.
It can be big or little.

Pick up a piece of trash off the ground and put it in a receptacle.

Take a shopping cart left in a parking space to the proper area.

Open the door for someone.

Provide someone positive reinforcement.

Give a dollar to a homeless person.

Buy a total stranger lunch.

Volunteer at a food bank or pet shelter.

Call a relative or friend you haven't heard from in many years.

Check on an elderly neighbor.

Recycle.

You can think of many more examples.

A Japanese consultant developed a quality program called Kaizen.  The basic premise is that big results come from small changes accumulated over time.  Thousands of people doing little things will add up.

You can do it.  Whether the outcome of the election pleased our displeased you, it is done.  Now, let's make this country a better place.  

                                              GOD BLESS AMERICA!

G3

In 2004 one of my close childhood friends had been diagnosed with cancer.  Of all of my old friends, Craig was one of the healthiest of them all.  He had played college football and had a shot at the NFL. He had become a successful businessman, but never forgot his roots.  Many of our old friends lived in the Houston area and would meet regularly for lunch.  As his disease progressed more began to rally around Craig, helping out in whatever ways we could.  He fought as hard as anyone could, but eventually lost the big fight. 

Sadden by our loss one friend, Bob Jantz,  suggested that we not wait until the next one gets sick to share this fellowship.  As a result Bob, Bob Katz and I got together to follow through with the idea.
We developed some ground rules and identified people we would like to include.  We communicated our idea and extended invitations to others to participate.  About 15 high school classmates "signed on" and we had our first retreat at my beach house the next year.

The Original G3

Every year someone volunteers to host our "git together".  The location and arrangements are at the discretion of the host.  We have been to Crystal Beach, Galveston, East Texas, Bandera, Canyon Lake, Fredericksburg, Corpus Christi, Beaumont and New Orleans.  Next year is scheduled for Kemah. 

We usually have 10 to 12 attend.  Most of the group is now retired.  All have been successful and some would even be considered "deplorables".  We have engineers, accountants, salesmen, journeymen craftsmen, soldiers and lawyers.  No doctors, but one does have a PhD. Texas is their dominate home.  Over their careers they have lived in New Jersey, Illinois, North Carolina, Tennessee, Washington, Georgia, Alaska, Colorado, Louisiana, England, Africa and other locations I am probably overlooking. 

The meetings usually begin on Thursday and end after Sunday breakfast.  Over the past 12 years we have participated in numerous activities.  We have attended rodeos, museums, Jazz festivals, concerts, honky tonks, gun ranges, wineries, dog track and a bourbon distiller.

 
In addition, we have been fishing, played golf, went horse back riding, boating, kayaking and jet skiing.   We have boiled shrimp and crawfish. Played poker and invented competitive games of skill.  Drank a few beers.  Eaten copious amounts of junk food and visited many restaurants. And, paid a surprise visit to an old high school friend.

 But, mainly we talk.  A lot of reminiscing.  A lot of philosophizing. A lot exchanging of ideas.
And, a lot of discussion about medical issues.  We talk about recent surgeries, physical ailments and medications.  Although cars are still a popular topic girls rarely come up anymore.  Age is creeping up on this bunch of once "Alpha Males"   Since the group was founded we have lost two of the original members.  All of us have some ailments, some serious and some are just what goes with the territory.

One of the original goals was to provide emotional, spiritual and physical support to each other as well as other class members.  Each year we review what was done and what we can do to help where we can. 

These retreats are looked forward to each year.  It has provided an opportunity to link back up with those we knew in our formative years.  Although we don't all agree politically, we all share similar values, work ethics and a sense of responsibility.  We were all raised by parents of the "Greatest Generation".  As Richard Petty once said, "Don't Forget Your Upbringing", we get to revisit that every Spring. 

Next year it's the Car Show in Kemah.  Stay tuned.

Hurricane Trump

In 2008 Hurricane Ike hit Galveston County.  It was a Category II hurricane but carried a Cat IV storm surge.  The surge was estimated to be over 15 feet.  We owned a beach front house near Gilchrist, Texas at that time. When we were able to get on the Peninsula we found there was nothing left of our place.  Not even a piling.  Not only was our property destroyed everything in the vicinity was gone, with one exception.  A yellow cabin was seen in many overhead shots and was still standing..  It was a newer house and had been built to stricter building codes and withstood the storm surge and wind.

All over the Bolivar Peninsula older houses were destroyed and many of those built in the previous ten years survived.  The older cabins had been built in an era without restrictions and in some cases were eye sores along the 25 mile beach. 

Since Ike, rebuilding has flourished and beach houses continue to appear.  All built to current standards.  This has resulted in a significant upgrade on the Peninsula and property values have soared.  .


Not to down play the tragedy and monetary loses that myself and others experienced.  Hurricane Ike had the advantage of purging less desirable real estate and improve the esthetics of the beach communities.

With an important Presidential Election on the horizon, I have been trying to decide on my candidate of choice.  As I write, Donald Trump is leading the Republican nomination process and is quite controversial.  I don't like a lot of what he says and am not clear on his implementation plans.  But, he is not reluctant to say what he thinks and lets the others be damned.  This part I like.


So, what's the connection, you ask?  Trump is like a hurricane.  He is roaring in with advanced warning.  He scares the Hell out of some people.  Maybe even blowing hard. But, even if he leaves a lot debris in his wake, he might do some good.


I just read that Miley Cyrus, Al Sharpton, Jon Stewart, Rosie O'Donnell, Cher, Samuel L. Jackson, Whoopi Goldberg and several others would leave the country if he were elected.
Therefore, like Hurricane Ike, some good could come out of a bad thing.


I am rethinking my vote.