Welcome
Thanks for visiting the new Between the Lines blog.
I'm excited to say that I've received some encouraging feedback regarding the possibility of Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime being published.
Below is the preface and some sample stories from the manuscript. I hope you enjoy them. Please consider posting a comment.
(All stories are copyrighted by Joe Shrode)
I'm excited to say that I've received some encouraging feedback regarding the possibility of Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime being published.
Below is the preface and some sample stories from the manuscript. I hope you enjoy them. Please consider posting a comment.
(All stories are copyrighted by Joe Shrode)
All youth and high school sports
coaches have been accused of living vicariously through their kids. The less
someone likes a coach, the more “vicarious” he or she is accused of being.
Years ago, after practice one day, an
angry mother approached me. She felt that her undersized 10-year-old son should
be a catcher, even though we played three oversized 12-year-old pitchers.
“All you coaches are just living ‘vicariously’
through your kids,” she said in a sinister tone.
I replied, “But I don’t have any
kids.”
With confused expressions, we looked
at each other for a moment. She turned and walked away.
Vicarious: Felt or undergone as if one were taking part
in the experience or feelings of another.
As I wind up to throw the next pitch,
I plead, like most father/coaches, “Please, God, let Sam hit this one.”
“Why? Because he’s my son and I love him more
than I dreamed was possible. He’s having a bad day at the plate and if he
strikes out again, he’ll walk as fast as he can to the dugout with his helmet
pulled low over his face. He’ll look through the fence to see who was watching,
and if they’re watching him now. He’ll put on his hat as quickly as he takes
off his helmet. He’ll pull that down over his face, too. He’ll try to be brave,
but as he climbs up on the bench in the dugout, I’ll see his shoulders slump
and his little chin start to quiver. I’ll try to think of something to cheer
him up. Nothing will work, not right now. Besides, I have to coach the next
batter…be upbeat and positive…when what I would want to do is go sit next to
him, hold him so nobody can see him, and pull my hat down too.”
“Why? Because if he does hit the ball,
his eyes will light up and he’ll stand there and watch it without taking a step
toward first base until it hits the ground. And I won’t tell him to hustle to
first because I’m watching it, too. If it gets past the outfielders, the first
base coach will send him to second. I’ll take a few steps in that direction
along with him. He’ll try to put his head down and run without watching the
ball, like coach told him. But he’ll sneak a peek over his shoulder because
it’s just too hard not to. So will I.
“And if the outfielder still doesn’t
have the ball, he’ll get to run all the way to third. He’ll slide, even though
there’s no play. He’ll jump up and look at me. Then he’ll look behind home
plate to make sure mom saw it. He’ll jump up, slap his hands together in a
cloud of dust, but he won’t even think about wiping his sliding dirt off his
pants leg. He’ll spit, because that’s what ball players do, and he’s been
practicing that. He’ll pull the bill of his helmet down over his face. But
he’ll look up at me with a grin so big that I’ll even see the space where he
just lost his tooth. He’ll give me a thumbs up…he’s ready to score on this next
hit. I’ll give him a thumbs up back.
“Why? Because if it’s a wild pitch
he’ll get this look of terror just before the ball hits him. And it will make a
“thud” as it bounces off his back or his ribs. By the time I get to him, he’ll
be rolling on the ground and dirt will already be stuck to his cheeks where the
tears were. And he’ll have that look of fear and pain that makes parents feel
they’ve failed in their role as protector. He’ll wheeze and try to get his
breathe back. It hurts...and it’s scary.
“Why? Because if it’s ball four, he
won’t get to run it out to first base, and we’ll have to wait another inning
before he gets another chance. Because if he gives up and takes a good pitch,
or swings at one over his head, or doesn’t try, I’ll have tell him that I know
he’s better than that. I know he’s a good ball player; I know he can hit the
ball; I know he’s a good kid; he’s my son. I want everyone else to know it
too.”
Living vicariously? You bet I am.
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