Volume 6, Entry 9: That Man

Rivalry. Transformation. Forgiveness.

“I hope I never act like that man.”

It was my assistant coach who said it, but I was thinking it, too. That man was Jack*, the coach of our team’s opponent that night. I’d love to describe the moment that prompted those words, but I can’t.

Because there were several.

Jack greeted us rudely when he arrived, barking a question about starting pregame without introducing himself. He hurried us off the field while we groomed it, telling us to get out of the way. While hitting fly balls, he boomed every ball to the fence, his swings launching moonshots that none of his 13U players ever came close to catching. He barked out orders with a sloppy drawl; half of his comments barely made sense anyway. He took too long hitting grounders, robbing us of our allotted time on the field, and I’d swear it was intentional. When some parent from the stands called him on it, he sent a hard stare our way.

I didn’t know Jack then, but I had heard about him. Another coach had called him a “mess”, and the league struggled to get ahold of him at a phone number disconnected more often than not. Email? He supplied an address, but it bounced every message back; it might not have been real. Jack came into the fall league with a reputation as a belligerent parent who’d run into conflicts at every level his sons played, and at least one person swore he was a drinker. “Just listen to him slur his speech!” they testified.

Entering that fall season, I didn’t know about any of that. I barely had the bandwidth to keep up with the schedule, let alone who all my opponents were. After graduating from high school in June, I’d committed to coaching two teams, and staying on top of twenty-seven players, quadruple-header weekends, and my first college classes challenged me. I loved it, but I had no time to waste prejudging some rando.

Seeing Jack in the flesh caught me up to speed. I was eighteen, working at a comic book store and playing video games in my parents’ house, yet I could see a chasm between him and me. During games, my temper could (and did) erupt, but I brought all the other necessary skills for coaching. The organization, the communication, the reliability—I had that in spades. Jack shared my passion, but that was the only way we were alike. It didn’t take long to actively dislike the guy.

Especially after his team crushed ours. My thirteen-year-old squad featured several eighth graders, strong and savvy ballplayers for their age that towered over Jack’s tiny son and his friends, but they dominated us from the start. We were down seven before the second inning mercifully ended; we never got any closer.

And Jack reveled in that. His glee over their fourteenth run rivaled that of their first. He’d whoop and holler like it was the World Series every time we struck out or made an error. Every inning, if not every pitch, Jack grated on me more. Adjectives affixed themselves to him every time he opened his mouth. Classless. Crude. Immature. I didn’t need any stories to spur distaste for Jack: two hours sharing a field did the trick.

Two hours of being drubbed, I remind you. Not fun.

Playing under the lights at Nottoli, only a time limit rescued us. I offered polite congratulations afterward, even as he guffawed, but I fumed in the aftermath. We’d been the home team, so postgame cleanup fell to us. All my coach and I could talk about was Jack’s behavior.

Later that fall, my team defeated his, and I figured that was the last I’d see of the guy. The fall season requires a smaller commitment; lots of guys ran squads in September but stayed home come March. I hoped Jack would join their ranks. But wouldn’t you know it: come draft time, there Jack was again, coaching the league’s sixteenth team.

It…didn’t go smoothly. Jack’s team wasn’t strong, which left him visibly frustrated a lot of the time. He yelled a lot—in every direction—and several parents and teams complained about his boorish behavior. Most prominently, the logistical demands of coaching eluded him. He ran disorganized practices, he flubbed the pitching rules, and he alienated coaches by shirking cleanup duties.

Across those first few seasons, issues became the norm, and Jack regularly found himself dragged in front of the board for one reason or another. I had a role on the board then—I facilitated our drafts and maintained the website—and I voted in several disciplinary hearings involving some transgression or another related to Jack. When he pleaded his case, I’d watch silently, letting the established adults in the room do their thing, and I’d always squirm as he struggled to articulate his thinking. Fiery on the field, Jack was contrite while getting grilled and lectured by lawyers, accountants, and consultants. I’d leave some of those meetings feeling almost bad for the guy.

Until my team faced his the next time. Like clockwork, that man would show up, press some button, and roil me anew.

The worst of those games came around 2006. That fall season closed with a doubleheader between our squads, and the first game was tight late. Jack’s scorekeeper—a parent who’d accosted me during all-stars—lost track of one run during a marathon inning, amplifying tension as nobody could agree about ending the game. Neither of us acquitted ourselves well that morning, and when the second game began, we were at each other’s throats.

The umpires actually walked off when a parent yelled something rude a few innings later, and though Jack and I came together to umpire the rest of the game ourselves, our beef continued unabated. During ensuing seasons, everything became fuel for the fire: close calls in scrimmages, game ball contributions, even procedures dictated by the league like dugout selection. Every matchup between us became a grudge match; there was no worse sin than losing to that man.

Jack’s son, once undersized, grew bigger and stronger; joined later by his brother, their dad’s teams grew better in turn. That increased success often infuriated me. I’d watch this tactless, haphazard man twenty years my senior succeed and shake my head in disbelief. More than once, while red in the face and reeling from a loss to his squad, I’d think I hate this man. I’m sure I even said it a few times.

And then I coached his son.

Eventually, it was both sons, and more than a couple times each, but it was first his youngest. I led another fall team, and Jack missed signups somehow. They assigned his kid to my team after the draft. I learned about it the night before our first games.

To say I wasn’t thrilled understates things. I had nothing against Jack’s son, a solid ball player, just that man. The thought of dealing with that man, of phoning up that man, of listening to that man during every game was cosmic torture. I was student-teaching at the middle school then, making baseball my intended release from coursework and lesson planning, but there, again, was Jack, intruding on all the fun. I rued my choice to coach right then. I’d have taken anybody over that man.

Except Jack was a different person that fall. He was warm and genuine, the most positive dad sitting in the stands. Throughout games, I’d hear his voice constantly, cheering on everything or laughing loudly with my mom. Also a board member then, she, who had once called Jack “gross”, had more fun in the stands that season than any other. His son played fantastically from the start, by the way—he had eight straight hits at one point—but the revelation was Jack.

I work with teenagers, many of whom are actively figuring themselves out before my eyes, but I’ve never watched a person transform how Jack did. His slurred speech pattern became folksy. His energy became infectious rather than off-putting. He celebrated and laughed with joy, not derisiveness. Players’ families loved the guy. He remembered the little siblings’ names and tossed them whiffle balls before the game. I’d never seen any of that before.

Best of all, I watched him watch his son. That man loved baseball too much to fixate on his kid, but when the son looked in for a sign with two strikes or came to the plate with runners in scoring position, I watched Jack tense up, scrunching in his shoulders and biting his lip. He’d lean into whoever was close, begging them to keep him together, then spring up when his son came through, which he almost always did. When later, while shuffling to the parking lot, I complimented his son, Jack would get this little smile of contentment. You’d think I’d just saved the kid’s life. That was it, really—not pride or vicarious glory but relief. I’d say, “He carried us today” or “He spun it beautifully” and he’d drop a world off his shoulders because his boy had done well.

I suppose it’s no surprise that getting to know a person helps you understand them, but it’s still remarkable. I called Jack a changed man in conversation with my parents, but that’s the thing: Jack wasn’t changed. Not really. Away from the adrenaline of competition and the pressure of leading, I saw a human being. A sweet guy. A doting dad who raised four kids with meager means, who did manual labor for a living, and yet the guy always made time for his kids’ games. Outside of suspension, I’m not sure he’s missed even one.

Speaking of those suspensions, I cringed remembering those hearings in the following years. Yes, there were definitely justified ones that merited swift disciplinary action, but retroactively, several struck me as specious. Instead of a room of well-meaning volunteers ensuring positive experiences for kids, more than a few struck me as petty attacks on a guy occasionally overwhelmed by a formidable volunteer job. I wouldn’t speak for anyone else because I know they keep kids’ best interests at heart, but I know I was unfair to Jack. I know it. I think we all were.

Yet Jack came back. Jack always came back. Every spring, he appeared again. Despite almost two decades of conflicts and rubbing people the wrong way, Jack never stopped coaching. When his boys aged out, they joined him in the dugout around school and jobs. No matter what, Jack found his way onto the field whenever he was allowed to.

Which isn’t true of me. I left the board in 2010 after rising to Co-Head Coach of the JV team. I cited that job’s demands as my reason for stepping down. That was the truth.

Mostly.

I’d planned to be involved with the league forever. Even while leading the JV team, I wanted to be involved; I wanted to support the organization that rejuvenated my love of baseball. I wanted to be a fixture there. That was always my plan.

Until 2010.

That spring, even though I’d already been hired to coach at the school, I managed one more team with a friend. Through entirely foreseeable circumstances, we drafted a loaded team. Possible from the start, the situation surprised no one on the board—they’d been consulted beforehand and anticipated it—yet when some parent grumbled, they made it into a massive issue. We’re talking multiple meetings, flurries of emails, real Joseph McCarthy shit. Despite being an incredible asset to them for eight years, they did everything in their power except defend me.

At one point, they had a loud and public meeting, decrying the situation as unfair. I disagreed with their assessment—in the micro and the macro—but all I asked was for them to legislate it after the season and not inflame the issue more. They refused, embarrassing me and my friend, whose son unwittingly centered the controversy. I left that tribunal of a meeting full of this defeated sort of hate. I felt angry and burned, like I’d given my time and passion to these people only to be treated like shit for it. I felt like…

I felt like Jack. Or like how Jack must’ve felt. Right? How often had I been on the other side, dubiously targeting him? To be clear, I hadn’t done anything wrong in 2010—it wasn’t a disciplinary issue—but how many times had Jack not really done anything wrong either? How often had I made that man feel like I did leaving that “meeting”?

When I quit that fall, I said all the right things, but I did it out of spite. It was a fuck you move, even if I muddied my message by continuing to help out. I wanted to extricate myself from them; I couldn’t be around those self-righteous assholes after that. They’d burned me. They’d humiliated me. I couldn’t face them without surrendering my dignity.

Over the next decade, I got busier and busier, slowly scaling back my contributions. I coached a few fall teams—with Mike once, with Zach and Maia the other—and an all-star team, but mostly, I’d show up in February and run their draft. My greatest innovation on the league’s behalf was a hand-coded Draft Suite, and using it annually allowed me to put my skills to use. I did it for the league and myself, not those guys.

Seriously: I’ve run fifteen drafts for them, and every one’s preparation tasted bitter. I’d get the data file late and grumble. I’d stew over the shitty formatting I’d have to shuffle around. I’d curse when they added me to the wrong email chain and kept my phone buzzing for hours. All week long, as the task of facing them approached, I’d plot blowing the whole thing up, shrugging and leaving them to squirm with all eyes on them like they’d once done to me.

I’ve never done it. I really do enjoy doing the draft, and I love that league too much to hurt it. It’s where baseball-loving kids like me get to make their sports memories. It mattered to me; it still does. I’d swallow hard, cover my still-puffy scars, and become earnest and cordial. I could handle a few hours every winter with the people who hurt me.

Besides: that small group who did comprises only one pocket of those still involved. I enjoy being around those others. I relish the potent nostalgia hits they serve up. I like seeing them. They smile when I walk in.

None bigger than Jack, by the way. Out of all the warm greetings I get each year, it’s Jack who pops up with a big grin and hugs me tight like I’m his oldest buddy. When he tells me about his sons, where they’re coaching and the businesses they’re running, I smile, and then he smiles even wider. He’s gonna be a grandfather this summer. It’s super cool.

Even cooler are the moments during the draft when he looks over at me. He’s coaching with someone great, someone who delivers the executive wherewithal he lacks, but when a quirky situation crops up, as one did on Sunday, Jack looks over to me for clarification. He wants me to lay it out for him. There’s so much trust in his eyes. That man knows I’m going to guide him truly.

How can he do that? For years, I actively loathed that man, made no secret of wishing I’d never see that man’s name again, voted to send him home in shame, and now he trusts me to protect him and be unwaveringly on his side? I can’t forget one shitty moment from 2010, but Jack’s forgotten dozens of times I was needlessly uncharitable to him. How can any person forgive like that? Jack makes moving on look so easy.

I wish I was more like that man.

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This was the story I most wanted to tell this week. I wrote a draft that addressed others—canceling cable, my pantry—but this one stuck with me, and I restarted. I’m happy I did. I wish I had that clarity for next week.

I wish I had that clarity in general.