On Their Sleeves: Part One
There was a last minute change in field availability forcing us to either cancel our first home baseball tournament or move it to another field. The only other field was in miserable shape, but I told Chuck we had a week to get it ready and that we could do it. He looked at me like I had two heads, not because he thought I was crazy, but because he knew I was serious…
Its 1:30 Friday afternoon (August 6th 2004) and the baseball tournament I decided to host starts at 3:00. I’ve been pushing this 21” walk-behind mower in the hot sun for over two and a half hours and I’ve got a ways to go before the spectator hill is finished. Randy Beals is bringing his squad Planet Baseball from Attleboro and is scheduled to play Canton in the first game. Ray Foley is bringing his team from Killington, Vermont and he’s playing in the second game against the Norton Mavericks, that’s us.
I’m digging in, knowing I have to get home in time to shower, return to greet my guests here at the Lions Field, play the National Anthem over our make-shift loud speaker (actually through a hand held bullhorn), and then announce the starting lineups. I’m beyond dehydrated, but there’s no time to stop except to refuel the mower or empty the bag.
The ten yards of new infield mix Rob Paulhus, Chuck Moitoiza, Neil Stanley, Bob Cronin, and I spread, rolled, and compacted last Saturday after rototilling, looks great and there are no ankle-breakers in the outfield; the loam I got from Everett Leonard Field, where the tournament games were supposed to have been played, filled them in nicely... The mound is exactly nine inches above home plate, line levels don’t lie, and the front of the newly installed pitchers rubber is exactly forty-six feet from the apex of home plate. I put the foul poles in myself earlier in the week because Mick never showed, and in doing so I got a serious case of Poison Ivy that was bad enough that I’m on Prednisone…
There, I’m done. I’ll just push the mower through the high grass and into the woods and get it later, after the games. I got to get home so I can shower, grab Dylan and get back in time to start the baseball tournament, aptly named “Tournament of Champions”.
One last look from the top of the hill—the field looks unbelievable! Jack would be proud…
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My first experience playing organized football was in 1967 on a Pop Warner team called the Sharon Red Devils coached by Jack Cosgrove. The effect his coaching had on me then is still evident in everything I do today, some forty years later.
At the time he was my coach, Jack was employed as a truck driver for the Whiting Milk Company, beginning each day before most people took their first poke at a snooze button. Mr. C, as we affectionately called him, was average in height and build, but his ability to motivate his young players was anything but. I always wondered where his motivation came from; unselfishly investing incredible amounts of time and energy in total strangers. It’s only after many years of coaching throughout the course of my life that I am beginning to understand the special place that type of motivation comes from and how uncommon it is…