At first, a lot of the parents complained about our two hippie coaches saying they were a bad influence on us as players. Their was even a quiet, mumbled petition of sorts to get them removed but it fell far short of getting ratified when we started winning games in far greater numbers than the years prior. I’ve heard many a pastor say “Be warned of the middle school years, it’s where the Devil can plant a bad seed an eventually produce bad fruit in your child”. I’m not so sure about the middle school being the devil’s supermarket, it seemed to me that Beelzebub was busy enough using gossiping parents and folks calling themselves “Christian” to satisfy his cravings to even have a spare second to go for the unripe fruit. When he had as many seasoned fruits and nuts as he wanted in the older crowd I figured he could get a full belly on those folk and leave us kids be. And that’s all I have to say about that.
Regardless of what the blow hards and gossipers said and thought, It seemed to me that giving a young ball player a say in how his team were to be run was a reasonable thing . It may have been dumb luck or just the proper alignment of the planets but it worked. The agents of our coaches doom all were silenced when we took our lions share of wins that year.
My good friend Mike and I were the team jokers. We’d wear our baseball caps “Rally” style when we played. We figured out how to bend the cap so it resembled a driving hat perfectly, much to the displeasure of Coach Dude, the head coaches brother. He considered it a game infraction and added laps to our lap bank, even though Mike was probably the best center fielder I had ever played with or watched play the game. I, on the other hand, was cursed with the dreaded side-arm style of throwing meaning every time a ball was hit my way I threw it back straight but it would curve like a race car at full throttle hitting the high banks at Talladega. It used to really piss off both Coach Man and Coach Dude, but it was for me, what it was. I did get to where I could calculate the correct vector and when I would throw to third, I’d aim for the pitcher and it would curve off towards the third baseman like a charm. Coach Dude, rather than trying to change my style helped me with the geometry rather than the mechanics, something no coach had ever done before. I said before I was a decent football player and usually made the team at Beulah because they knew I might take the rejection of not making the team with my friends as a reason to take my tackling skills to one of the numerous other parks when that particular season rolled around. What they didn’t know was Beulah park was five minutes from my house, close enough to walk or ride my bike to and from so they had me if they liked it or not.
I will confess we all were a little rough on Coach Dude at first. He’d hit fly balls to us as outfielder catching practice and we’d throw the balls back to him over his head and generally over the fence. Every time we’d do it, he’d say ”Oh Man, Dude, duuude, aww mannn…dude” like a record had been dropped in the same spot over and over. I got to where I’d eventually feel bad about it as the weeks passed and I began to realize how patient he was with us all. He was the kind of guy that would argue a call with an Umpire on our behalf and when he finished he offer the Ump a breath mint or recommend a better tooth brushing regimen. He was a cool guy and it took us a few weeks to break him in, but his patience made us all like him like I’d never liked a coach before or since. On a rare occasion Coach Dude would miss practice and I also noticed his brother’s face when he did, painted with the worry of a brother in pain. We’d use our discussion time to ask Coach Man where his brother and our coach was that day, and he’d just say “He’s sick”. We all assumed he was doped up or drunk but never knew that for sure. His absence always made the rumor mill crank up but we’d practice hard on those days and made sure no one gave Coach Man a hard time. We could tell he was a troubled soul and his brother’s well-being was his biggest concern.
At the end of our season we stacked up more wins than losses for the first time in a whole lot of years. Our Coaches gave us a cookout and invited our parents to be there. What he told us at our cookout still crosses my mind on occasion and is inspirational about a brothers love. Coach Dude was indeed a Vietnam Veteran and practically a hero fighting at the siege at Ke-San a remote base in an area named the same that ended up being a battle that lasted four months and amounted to a battle of 6,000 US troops versus 25-30,000 North Vietnamese troops in the most remote part of Vietnam. Apparently Coach Dude was a certified hero and Marine and on the brink of madness from all that he saw and endured while he was there. His brother, Coach Man, was just trying to help his brother hold it all together. He told us young men that the days his brother couldn’t attend practice was when his injuries received in battle crippled him to the point of not being able to walk. He had shrapnel in his legs and back and his body would try to push the foreign objects out, like any body would, but it produced pain that only smoking marijuana could ease. I instantly felt like a heel for throwing the balls over the fence on purpose all those times. It made me keenly aware to not pass judgement on anyone regardless of how they might dress or talk.
I never had coaches as cool as Coach Man and Coach Dude ever again.
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