She Left Me

She left me. It's over. She said that I don't listen. That talking to me is like taking to a blank screen and there's no user interface between us. She said that I'm a grown man and I can do what I want, but she's not going to sit back and watch while I make self destructive choices.

One little slip. That's all. And I couldn't even enjoy it because I was thinking of her the entire time. But did that matter to her?

All it was, was one little trip to McDonald's. Ok, sure, I had a large Coke. But I only got one refill. I had small fries instead of large and a McDouble. That's like 23 grams of protein!

And did that matter to her? No! Does she listen to me? Never. My Fitness Pal thinks she knows everything, but does she ever consider what I'm going through? Or what it is like living my life?

She can't or won't. But what does it matter now? She packed up her nutritional charts, uninstalled herself and just left.

So, here I am on the couch with a bag of Cheetos thinking of better days. How we used to do food and exercise logs together. How she'd leave inspirational notes on my timeline. I think I want her back, but maybe this is for the best. Because I sit here and my mind wanders to her beautiful pie charts and I just know this thing between us was destined to fail.

The Troll & the Icelandic Duke Brothers

Keflavik International is the airport that serves Iceland. Lying about 30 minutes from the Icelandic capital of Reykavijk, we were first warned about it by the father of an Icelandic friend. He said, "Don't let Keflavik scare you." Not that it is a dangerous place. Keflavik is just...barren. It doesn't have the esthetic charm of Reyjkavik. Nor does it have anything like the waterfalls, geysers, oceanside cliffs, or any natural grandeur with which the rest of Iceland is blessed. But this is where our journey started and a little marina in Keflavik is the source of our best stories on the island.

Keflavik is a familiar name to Jen & I. There was an Air Force base here and this was a possibility when we were active duty. That base has since closed, but its structures are still in use. Pulling up to our hotel, everything looked oh so familiar. This was an Air Force building for sure. We were told that back in the day this building served as billeting, which is where incoming and outgoing military members stayed until they found new quarters.  The Icelanders have even kept the standard colors. Faded tan and brown. Sweet. The interior was better than I'd ever seen in my Air Force days, but there were some chairs and couches in the common areas that I know I sat in back in Germany. Holy Flashback.

Our flight left New York at 8pm, so we arrived in Iceland at 6:30am. We pulled up to our hotel too early to check in, so we set out to find breakfast. This is not a largely populated island and Keflavik is not a big town. The search for food at this time of day had the same feel as a small town Sunday morning...in the '70s. There wasn't nobody nowhere.  The GPS led us to three places. Two wouldn't open for another couple hours and the third hadn't been open in a couple years. Finally, we spotted a place with a tour bus out front and a crowd of Asian tourists milling about taking pictures. Walking in we were told that they were only open for the tour bus, but they'd put some food out for us.

Cafe Duus was a nice looking place. We were seated at a large round table near windows that gave us a full unobstructed view of a small marina. A waist high stone wall lined the marina and blended into the jetty that held back what was currently a calm Atlantic Ocean. On the other side was a large hill with an odd outcrop on the end. Breakfast was standard European fare. Meats, cheeses, fruit, and rolls. We were charmed by the friendly owner, the view, and the 10,000 year old walrus tusks mounted on the wall. So, we decided to return for dinner.

View across the marina from Cafe Duus.

On the way to the lair of the Giantess.

Following breakfast we went for a walk and took some pictures when my eyes were drawn to an odd looking structure across the marina. It looked like a house built into a cave. Time to explore!  It was 48 degrees, which is about as good as it gets on a July morning in Iceland. So, dressed in shorts but snuggled in our fleeces, we set out on our first adventure. Our little family of five followed the sidewalk to the other side of the marina until we came to a sign over the path where in a runic script was written, "SKESSUHELLIR" and large footprints were painted on the sidewalk. Curious, we moved forward, but among the kids, apprehension was setting in.

The path curved slightly and as we moved nearer there was a nervous excitement. Getting close we could see the opening to the cave with a crude shack like widow and door built into it. There was growling. This is where the kids stood back and let dad go alone.  I thought that maybe they believed that I was the strong, clever protector and could slay or defeat whatever beast lie in wait. Or I was the most expendable. Either way, I was going in.

She's watching...

Peeking inside the cave the first things I saw were a bed and a chair. They were huge. I felt like a character in Honey I Shrunk the Kids.  Next to the chair was a kind of Christmas tree decorated with pacifiers and children's toys. Behind a half door was a head. A big paper mache head of a giant troll. And it wasn't growling. It was snoring. So, it was asleep. A reading corner was off to the side. Clearly this was for kids, so I waved everyone else to join me. They did. Except Thomas. He wasn't buying that it was safe. So, while Jennie, Zach, & Maddie checked it out, I went to reassure our youngest son that the cave was ok. And I almost had him convinced. He was on his way in when Maddie ran out and pronounced that, "I think it's waking up!" That was enough for Thomas.

So, what was it? After returning home I found a web site that said this is a friendly giantess who lived in the cave. But in Keflavik, we asked around. The locals had a completely different take on this troll. An old man at the tourist bureau gave us his version. This giant troll, Gryla, looks for naughty children. She can only come out after dark. So, at bed time is when children cry, ask to stay up to watch tv, refuse to go to sleep, and argue about brushing their teeth. Gryla goes out and collects the bad children and takes them back to her cave. The man told us that she would keep them in the cave for a few days, until they were naughty no more, then return them home.

Elisabet, who worked the front desk at our hotel had a slightly different take. She agreed with the old man's version, but in her home, and many others, Gryla was used to make children behave. Especially around Christmas. Elisabet was told that Gryla would seek out naughty children alright. But it was because she was hungry. Elisabet's parents would tell her that if she wasn't good, Gryla would steal her and eat her for dinner and leave her jammies and toys hanging on the tree. Sometimes they'd tell their daughter that Gryla would boil children in a pot so they were cooked just right. That girl was scared to death. Not exactly Dr. Spock, but Elisabet seems to have survived.

We would return to Cafe Duus that evening and were seated at the exact same round table near the windows. Unlike the morning, the restaurant was teeming with customers and waitresses were scurrying from table to table. After a few minutes, we had ours. We just began to order our appetizers when we heard screams and gasps and everyone was looking our way. I turned as I heard the crash and saw a blue car, airborne, over that stone wall, and heading for the water.

It had raced through the parking lot and slammed on the breaks leaving skid marks for some 30 feet before smashing into the stone wall and being catapulted up and over, nose first into the marina. There were people outside trying to help while everyone in the restaurant was standing up against the windows.

The car was going down and we could see the air blowing and bubbling out from underneath and out of the car windows. A young man crawled out the passenger window, but as the car sunk beneath the water, the driver was still inside. Not until it was completely submerged, did a teenage boy swim to the surface from the driver's side, pushing his wet curly blonde hair back from his face. In minutes the parking lot had an ambulance, several police cars, and swarms of people.

And to our surprise, by the time we finished dinner, they were gone. The lot was empty as if nothing had happened. We wandered out for a look at the scene and that is when the teenagers started congregating. Kids on foot and on bikes. One in particular, we recognized. Blonde hair still damp, it was the driver. We didn't speak his language, but we could tell what he was saying. Recounting the adventure to his friends, he pointed at the water, complete with gestures, sound effects, and waving his keys about,  he spoke of his experience with gusto. We couldn't help but wonder, why was he there? Where were his parents? Did they even know? Wasn't he in trouble? I guessed not.

But I'll bet I know who noticed. Right across the marina, in the cave, watching it all, was Gryla. This was a naughty boy. And I wondered if some morning we might go to that cave and find those car keys hanging off that little tree and see that giantess picking some blonde hair out of her teeth.

They don't all survive.

The Cravin'

When I moved to Syracuse, my first job was in a law firm copy center. Most of my time was spent as a messenger, walking around the city delivering and picking up papers, checks, etc. What does one's brain do with all that alone walking time? Apparently, one perverts the work of Edgar Allen Poe with tales of stolen snacks at work. 

The Cravin'

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By: Edgar Allen Poe and Thom Higgins

Once upon a midnight dreary
While he pondered weak and weary
Over a faint and furious fax for Peter Swartz
As Dave Clark nodded nearly napping,
When suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping on the fax room door.
“ ‘Tis just Chris, “ he muttered, “tapping at the fax room door, Chris or Thom and nothing more”.

Ah, distinctly I remember
It as a warm September
The Xerox’s greenish lantern left its light glowing o’er.
Eagerly he wished the mallow
Chocolate graham to swallow,
His craving he did follow to the break room’s modern Norge.
For the soft and sweet sensation that Pop-Tart named s’more.
Then he saw, there were no more.

As Dave went back to working
The flavor he was thirsting
It thrilled him—filled him with fantastic hunger never felt before.
But now Dave stood repeating
As the tapping became beating,
“’Tis just Chris entreating entrance at the fax room door.
Chris or Thom and nothing more.”

As the copier’s beat grew stronger
He hesitated then no longer,
“Sir,” he said, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping,
And so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping on the fax room door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here he opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep in to that darkness peering
He stood there wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no messenger dared dream before.
But the silence was unbroken
And the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “s’more?”
This was whispered and an echo murmured back the word “s’more!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Then in from the darkness strutting
As the door Clark was shutting
Stepped the tall Dave Nason, with hair of sixties lore.
Not the least obeisance made he.
Not a minute stopped or stayed he.
But with mein of Lord or Lady, perched beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat upon a pack of post-its beside the fax room door.
Perched and sat and nothing more.

But that Nason sitting lonely,
On the Post-it box spoke only
Just in one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
The silence had been broken,
As these words he had spoken,
The shocking words came forth from this computer commodore:
There he said, “Tasty s’more.”

Then the air grew denser,
Perfumed as if some censor.
All around him was the scent of what was once a s’more.
Nason sat there smiling,
A smile that was beguiling
And on his jacket lining, the evidence he wore.
On his jacket lining was the smudges from a s’more.
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Prophet!” said Clark, “thing of evil
Prophet still as from the devil,
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore!
Tell this soul with sorrow laden,
If, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall fill a savored craving for a sweet and tasty s’more!
Clasp a rare and sticky pastry that Pop-Tarts named s’more!
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”

“Be that word our sign of parting,
I.S. fiend, “ he shrieked, up starting –
“Get thee back into the basement you pastry omnivore!
Leave no frosting as a token
Of the lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my hunger here unbroken,
Quit this box beside my door!
Take thy scent of thy Pop-Tart and thy form from off my door!”
Quoth Dave Nason, “Tasty s’more.”


And this Nason, never flitting
Still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the flaxen pack of post-its just beside the fax room door.
And his eyes have all the seeming
Of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor.
And Clark’s hunger from out of that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be satisfied, never more.

Post with Care

Social media has become one of my most important past times. I know it sounds cheesy, since most people use Facebook for gossip, games, or the completely inane. But for me, I found a creative outlet for writing which I didn't know I was craving. From Facebook, I moved up to a blog. I have found writing to be a way to exercise my brain and vent some happy out into the world.

When I do put words down, I try to be funny, clever, and entertaining. To take a moment and successfully put it into words that people enjoy is a challenge and one that I put a fair amount of effort into. Few things make me happier than hearing back how a reader enjoyed my words. Even better is hearing that from people I've never met and for whom what I wrote wasn't even intended. To think that you made the day of someone you don't even know is such a rewarding experience.

But it can go another way. I'm a passionate person. There are issues about which I care deeply and of which I have strong convictions. And I know the feeling I get when I see something on the screen that I find personally insulting or pointed directly at me or people like me. I'm telling you, it pisses me off.  Just thinking about it now, I can feel anger & irritation coming up from my stomach and out every one of the pores in my head and out my fingers. Hell, I'm even typing faster. And typing faster means I'm pumping out emotions and not really thinking.

Americans are so adamant about their rights to do what they want, that they don't think about their responsibilities as people. It is a twisted brand of selfishness that completely over rules any sense of compassion for others. People have Facebook and Twitter and every message board out there to voice their opinions and scream their complaints that they don't think about what it means.

I have been as guilty of this as anyone. I can debate and discuss and be very reasonable about it. But when discussions escalate, as they sometimes do, I have not been afraid to resort to some hyperbole to illustrate the misguided opinions of others and been out to dispense my own brand of common sense pellets with little thought of the people in my wake.

Which brings me to an off hand post I threw out on Facebook about the Super Bowl commercial from Nationwide Insurance that upset so many people. The commercial is narrated by a boy that is listing all the amazing things he will never do only to reveal that he can't because he is already dead. The commercial talks about child safety.

My first impression of the uproar over this ad was that it was ridiculous. Why would people complain about child safety? Why would they grouse that a downer of a commercial was run during their Super Bowl parties? It seemed so petty, so I responded in my post with ridicule. Maybe not ridicule, but it was definitely dripping with sarcasm because, of course, I know everything.

And then I came across a "Boycott Nationwide" page. I commented there, too. I don't know what I wrote, as I went back and deleted it. Because afterward I saw that a Facebook friend of mine had shared it. That page was full of parents who had lost children and were unhappy with the twist in this ad. I knew that my friend, who I have not known a long time, had lost a child under circumstances with which I am unfamiliar. I like this woman and I'd hate to think she saw what I wrote. Realizing this, I became a bit embarrassed and felt about 2 inches tall. 

And I thought, "Is this really the person I want to be?"

As rewarding and euphoric as it felt to make people feel good with my words, thinking that I used the same heart and the same brain to put together words that did just the opposite makes me ill. And I try to remember that when I feel something seething coming up from my belly. I try to take time to think in that space of time between the rolling of my eyes and my fingers tapping about the keyboard. 

This isn't about toning down beliefs or being politically correct. No one has to shed their opinions when they go online, because at least for me, debate and the volley of opinions and ideas is one of the things that makes social media social. That's what I like to do.

But prior to dispensing of our snark and before we lay down the law of our own self proclaimed wisdom like the Wizard of Oz hiding behind the curtain of the internet, we need to take a moment to consider who is on the other end of the line. Just for a second, stop thinking about what you need to say and consider what those words mean. Take the time to help bring back a more civil and compassionate society.

The Way of the Meme

I don’t think I’m a bad person. Like most people there are one or two things that I’ve done in my life that I’d like to take back. But when I get to the pearly Gates there isn’t much I have to hash out with St. Peter. Not until Sunday. That is when I chose to forsake my faith and was won over by the power of the meme.

The meme – social media’s single serving nugget of knowledge and humor. This fortune cookie of the electronic age, a picture and a splash of words meant to hand out wisdom, laughs, or inspiration. Oh sure, to most people a meme is something that they just breeze by in their newsfeed, stopping for a quick glance. I was one of those people.  But as I lay in bed at 6:30 Sunday morning, I was debating my running plan for the day. Should I keep it simple or should I really push myself? I want to do a half marathon, and there is this 11 mile route I had been considering, but I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that distance. But then I saw the light.

Limitations? 
I HAVE NO LIMITATIONS! No weakness! No excuses! No matter that I hadn’t gone that far since April. No matter that I haven’t run more than six miles since my hip flexor & IT band told me to they’ve had enough, sending me to physical therapy for a three months. 
It didn't matter that I was recovering from Plague Lite. 
Why consider the time crunch and that I'd have to explain to my wife why I wasn't back in time for church if I failed?  It didn’t matter. I couldn't fail. The meme spoke to me. They ALL did!

Yes!  No regrets!   

ITS NOT TOO LATE!

LIVE EVERY DAY!

COMMIT TO MYSELF!

HAVE FAITH!!!!

 Amen, brother! I believed and I was going for it.

And for a while it was great! Jogging along one of my familiar routes until I hit the usual turn. And instead of turning, I broke free and went straight. Heading west with every step and getting closer to Auburn than I had run before on this road. Still well within my usual distance, I was moving along confidently. Morning fog was burning off as I went past the grazing yaks. (Seriously. We have yaks here). Doubt was there, for sure. Fueled, no doubt by fate’s foreshadowing  of danger to come, with a larger than usual assortment skulls and bones along this stretch of Weedsport-Sennett Road. Not human, I believe, but all deathy nonetheless.

And before I knew it, I arrived at the valley of the shadow of death, which on this day was called Turnpike Road. That was where Auntie Meme was letting me down. Doubt crept in. Maybe I did have limitations. I was approaching my recent distance maximum and on a slightly unfamiliar road. And I hadn’t yet hit the half way mark. Way out here more trees and less traffic gave it a road less traveled feel. Comfort came in knowing I wasn’t the only runner out there. Hansel and Gretel must have jogged not far in front of me as they left a trail of runner’s loogies along the way. Way better than bread crumbs, I guess. No one was getting lost out here because even the crows weren't picking at that. 

Turnpike beat me down at miles 6 & 7 as it was all hill, hill, hill. The downs were good. Ups? Killers. Fine. I gave up. I was beat. I had to walk. Had to. Run/Walk, anyway, all five miles home. The meme was wrong. I did have limitations. It was a Golden Calf who did not take into account my tin IT band. 

I could still repent, right? Maybe St. Peter will cut me some slack. I can plead guilty to lesser charges. Mentally writing this blog during mass or for doing some light stretching in the pew should cover my blasphemy charge.

So there is no power of the meme. But I did get out of bed and try. Eleven miles under two hours wasn’t bad. I didn’t get home too late. I didn't even have to schmooze my wife. I’ll be saving that for St. Peter. 

Small Town Works of Art

The news that Immaculate Conception Church along with the other Catholic churches in Streator, could possibly be razed fills me with fear. Fear of losing my church, my childhood, and my hometown.

 I know that I am part of the problem. In 1984, my family moved west to California. After high school, I went into the Air Force and life guided me to Upstate New York rather than back to my childhood home. I am part of the exodus of people looking for greener pastures in other cities and other states. So, maybe I have no right to complain. I am not a registered Illinois voter, a registered parishioner, and I do not have a nickel invested. But I still love the city of Streator. I love my childhood there. I love the sights and sounds and the people. I love the person that my time in Streator made of me. These churches are a defining feature of the city and their absence will affect more than the Catholic population.

St. Anthony was MY church. I grew up on Washington Street, walking distance to St. Anthony’s School and church. From my yard I could always look up and see those towers. I could see them from Lathrop’s house on North Park Street and after dodging the trees in City Park,from near Scudder’s house on Kent Street. From most points in Streator, I could look up and know where home was. Not much has changed. Driving in for a visit, approaching Streator on Route 18, I’ll look for those two points out on the horizon and know that I am almost to my ancestral homeland. Along with the spider-like water tower, the steeples make Streator one of the few towns in Central Illinois with a skyline whose defining feature is more than a grain elevator. Like a beacon, they give me direction. I can look up and know where I am or where I need to be.


Looking at the big picture a cynic could say that these structures aren't unique. They are pretty generic as late 19th century American Catholic churches go. But Goethe called architecture "frozen music", and that is what these churches give to Streator in a way that nothing else in town does, and for the foreseeable future, nothing else will. When I look up at the steeples of St. Mary's, St. Stephen's, or the dual steeples of St. Anthony's, I see height and beauty. They own the only architectural awe in town.

And these churches weren’t built by the government or some multi-national corporation. They weren’t put here by some Rockefeller or Carnegie or even Disney. Those magnificent structures were built by the working people of Streator. The people who may have lived in your neighborhood or sat in the very room in which you are reading this article, put in their time, talent, money, and hard work to build up those parishes and finance those buildings. Citizens of Streator created or at least sponsored these works of art and I can't fathom that there'll be new commercial buildings on the horizon to rival them.


It isn't just the outside of these buildings that sing. Streator is a working class town. One wouldn't expect to see anything special here. But I have always thought of these churches as our own art museums.

Newsflash. Despite my years of Catholic education, I never was the best Catholic. And that started as a kid sitting in the pews of St. Anthony. Generally there for mass, I was more likely to find myself looking about. The experience started just walking through those big wooden medieval doors into the wide open space, the ceiling a mile high. Too clueless to ever be cursed with Catholic guilt, I wasn't one to be intimidated by those apostle statues. Atop the 12 pillars on either side of the nave, they looked down, welcoming me back.

I find my seat. Who's here? Any cute girls from school? Is the funny hat lady sitting in the front row again? Without fail, my eyes would be drawn to the stained glass. Supersized saints and the sun piercing its way through the glass, I would find myself lost in the detail and the illumination of color.

Looking to the high altar on the back wall, it draws my eyes up and up until I couldn't tell if the crucifix at the top was of the altar or painted on the ceiling as part of the fresco of Christ's Ascension. But that was the point, wasn't it? Was it part of Heaven or Earth? 
And with my eyes to Heaven, music from the great organ reverberated around me, shaking the building, shaking the pew, and shaking my body. And the scents of candles and incense fill the air and fill your nose giving you a multi-sensory experience that was like nothing you've ever known. 

Telling our children that art and beauty and history are to be cast aside when they become financially inconvenient sends us to a bleak future. What else is in Streator to attract the eyes and imagination of its citizens? Certainly not seeing those vaulted arches turned to a pile of rubble. If we lose them, how will we ever find our way home?

This is Why You Coach

I wish I had done this years ago. Every team is special in its own way. You always remember the names. You even remember the faces, although they are perpetually 9 years old. You remember the kids, but some of the reasons why and the little stories and details fade. This year I put them down. I try to think who my favorite player was this past season, but it was a 12 way tie. 

Ally wants to do everything perfect, all the time. But it doesn't work that way. A few bad pitches in a row and Ally got down on herself, so it would be my duty to go out to the mound to talk to her and get her to relax. Maybe hold hands in a calming circle and do some deep breathing and drop some Oms. It doesn’t work that way either.

There is a scene in the movie “A League of Their Own” where Geena Davis responds to her angry pitcher/sister who accused her of not helping her through tough innings. Davis asked, “Who was it that threw a rosin bag at me and told me to get my fat butt back behind the plate? I forget?”  I thought about that line every time I went to talk to Ally.

But for a kid who spent the first few weeks of practices telling me all the things she couldn’t do or didn’t do last year, Ally became a very dependable and important part of our team. Because when she was on, she was on. Then she’d go from worried face to happy face. Happy face Ally pitched very well. Maybe sometimes on the mound her exuberance might have been close to the wrong side of excessive celebration, but I let that go and rode the wave as long as I could, because I never knew when I’d be a couple pitches away from dodging a rosin bag.

Most of our games started at 6pm on weeknights. I’d asked the players to be there half an hour early. 5:30 would give us time to get warmed up and ready to play. I move at my own pace. I have a job. I have three kids who could never be called slaves to the clock.  They certainly move at their own pace, so the concept of times and schedules escape them entirely. So, occasionally, particularly with away games, I’d be a minute or two late. On my team was the only 11 year old who keeps track of time. 

Thank god for Courtnee. I never actually saw her with a watch or even with a phone that might give her an indication of what the time was. But she knew. And Courtnee would take it upon herself to let me know what time it was. “Coach, you’re three minutes late.”  “Coach, it’s after 5:30. Where have you been?” Her reminders were always delivered with a little bit of a smirk to be playful, but also with her arms crossed as if to say, ‘don’t let it happen again’.

Molly was by far the youngest on the team, playing a few years out of her age group. She was by far the smallest player on the team.  But Molly was the scrappiest. Molly was the most likely to dive in first. Molly was usually the dirtiest.  Molly asked if she could work on head first slides. Despite her tough exterior, she was always ready to pull out the cutsie boo-boo face in an attempt to get her way. Still, my lasting image of Molly is her hip to one side and her fist rested upon it. Her brow is furrowed and lips pursed, Molly was always ready for a throw down.

Frannie is a true all-star in that she plays like one and acts like one.  For those of you familiar with The Sandlot, Frannie was our Benny Rodriguez. She could play anywhere and do it well. Frannie could hit and would start every game saying, “I’m going to hit a home run.”  And she had the goods and the guts to make it happen. Everything Frannie does is big. Big hair, big smile, big laugh. Big hits. One game Frannie grounded to the first baseman. As the fielder when to tag Frannie, she thought she could slide past.  In the collision Frannie twisted her ankle. She went down hard and she really appeared to be in pain. Frannie refused to be carried or helped off the field. I awkwardly held her arm as she hopped from 1^st base to our dugout on the 3^rd base side. The next inning Frannie sat out and worked on her ankle. She hobbled on it. Limped on it. Walked a bit. When she showed me she could at least jog, I let her back in when her turn came to bat. Bases were loaded and she delivered the biggest hit of the game. Frannie crushed a waist high pitch to left center field and sprinted all the way to 3^rd base. And her ankle felt fine.

Could there be a more literal ballplayer than Reilly? I think not. In one game Reilly tried to talk her way out of a base because she wasn’t actually hit by a pitch. It only hit her shirt. She was even literal in her batting. She would either swing, or not swing. If she didn’t swing, she didn’t move, no matter how close the ball was to hitting her. This quality was great for a coach because that meant that Reilly would do what we asked her to do. She was on 2^nd with no runner at 1^st. I gave my usual spiel from the coach’s box, “There is no force, so if a ball is hit to 3^rd base or shortstop, don’t go until they throw.” Most runners get excited and take off, getting themselves tagged out. Reilly held and was safe on 2^nd, scoring on a later play. Other times, the literal thing can get me.

One batting technique I always have to work on is where the batters keep their hands. They tend to hold the bat close to their chest. The problem is that when the pitch comes, they pull their hands back as if winding up, then bring the swing forward. Usually, this makes the swing late. Keeping it simple I have always said, “Hold the bat back as far as you can”. Over ten years of coaching and I have said this literally thousands of times and I never doubted the efficiency of the words used to convey my meaning. Then along came Reilly. Her body at bat was so twisted that  her shoulders almost faced the backstop. Finally, I asked her why do you do that? “Because you told me to hold the bat back as far as I could.”  Yes, I did. So, my decade old phrase needed to be modified with what I call, the Reilly Addendum. “With your shoulders parallel to the plate, hold the bat back as far as you can.”  

Maddie. My little Angel Fish. I suppose having one’s father as the coach can be difficult. A bit more is expected of you. Not to mention the coach’s comfort level in speaking a bit more sternly than with kids to whom he isn’t related. And having your daughter as a player isn’t much easier. She is a bit more willing to rebut any criticisms or helpful baseball hints. Maddie has no problem calling attention to herself. This girl is always comfortable on center stage.  I can see her now, strutting to the plate in her red helmet adorned with a jeweled tiara. She stops at the batter’s box to bend and grab a handful of dirt and rub it between her hands, a la Jackie Robinson. Holding her left hand out she tells the pitcher to hold on and wait until she’s ready as she pounds the plate and takes a vicious practice swing. And on the field, and running the bases she is more animated than anyone I have ever seen. The dose of flair and fun that Maddie brought to the table was huge part of the personality of this team.

Sydney  had a rough time with team sports. Her previous teams were not particularly successful. Our team certainly wasn’t winning. She didn’t like it. After a rough loss in Cato, Sydney chose to turn herself around. There was an increase in focus. I think Sydney became more daring. She started swinging more often. She started swinging harder. Sydney started hitting and Sydney became more confident.  And that carried on right to the end of the season. Throughout the season, our girls were not sprinters and we didn’t go home on many passed balls. Our last playoff game was against the #2 seeded team. They  were good and had a solid, athletic catcher. In that game, Sydney took off for home twice. The girl was making it happen.

I always knew Emme was there. For nearly every practice and every game, that girl was the first one in the dugout. And questions? Emme always had questions. Not stupid questions. Everything she asked was baseball/softball appropriate questions. Often they were thinky questions that required longer explanations. Things like, “Who covers 2^nd when a runner steals?”  “What if the 1^st baseman leaves the base to get a ball?” Good questions, indeed. But if she was in front of me, she was asking something.  And timing didn’t really matter. In one game the girls were headed back onto the field and I wanted to get the team fired up with a little refresher on strategy for the inning and a pep talk. “Coach.” “Yeah, Emme?” “When we’re on 2^nd and there is no runner on 1^st, why do you tell us not to run if the ball is hit to the shortstop?”  True story. I guess inquiring minds want to know.

Our elementary school has a basketball camp to get 1^st &  2^nd graders interested in the sport. I was working one of the stations and it was there that I first met Breanna. That girl made me work. Breanna was fun, impish, & strong. She’d drive you nuts, but Breanna’s Dorothy Hamill haircut, big smile & constant laughter pulled you right in. Breanna had this bat that was too heavy for most of our girls. It was too heavy for Breanna two years ago when she was first on my team.  It was a big Captain Caveman club of a bat that even she would have trouble getting it around quickly enough. But when she made contact, you knew it.   

What I liked about Morgan is that she reminded me of me as a player. Nothing made Morgan too exited or too down. Morgan did everything you'd ask and would take advice in such a matter of fact way that she seemed like some baseball old timer sitting on the dugout bench tipping her cap back and simply saying, "Yep."
This part of Morgan's personality could work both ways. Sure, I never had to talk her down, but it also meant that she moved at her own pace and did things her way. Even though this was her first year at this level, Morgan was a very dependable catcher. But at times, Morgan would play catcher as if she was a goalie for the Buffalo Sabers, using her shin guards for blocking and deflection of low pitches. Usually, it didn't matter. She had things in hand. But every once in a while a ball would bounce off her shin guard and squib away, letting runners advance. I'd have to call to her, "Morgan, use your glove more than your shin guards." She'd look back and in a languorous way that would make any slow talkin' West Virginian jealous, Morgan would say, "Yeah, ok."

Leah was one of several on the team that was a rookie to softball. And though Leah came a long way over the course of the season I can't claim much credit. Why would a coach have to put pressure on a player that puts so much pressure on herself? Leah worked very hard and despite no previous experience she became a reliable and effective pitcher.  But, like Ally, if Leah threw a few bad balls in a row, I'd have to visit the mound to calm her down. "Leah. You're making the face. Just relax and throw and you'll be fine." And then she was fine.

When I get a chance to draft Lauren, I do. This is the 3rd year I've had Lauren on my team because she is a player. Lauren can be as fun and as silly as any 10 year old girl, but when the game

started, she was all business. Lauren was aware of what was going on and what she needed to do. There was no doubt that Lauren was trying her best. Her long limbs made Lauren a fun kid to watch. She had this huge sweeping swing that made it look like forever for the bat to cross the plate. More often than not, though, she was ahead of  the pitch. And it wasn't just her arms. With her socks pulled high, Lauren looked like a deer running the bases. I swear that at full stride, the girl could go from 1st to 3rd base in six steps.