A friend and work colleague called me a few weeks back and asked if he could take me to lunch. He wanted some coaching advice… for his son. At a lunch a few weeks back he was talking about a couple of books, one called, Talent is Overrated, by Colvin and The Outliers, by Gladwell. The premises of these books are that in some cases talent can never overcome repetition. I’m not trying to argue either way on this, because clearly you could hit a monkey 10 Million ground balls and he probably wouldn’t be a better fielder than a hockey goalie who’s never played baseball, but that is a great bar argument and I don’t have a drink in my hand. So next time you see me we can discuss.
The point is, as we were talking about this I told him about how my dad would make me throw 100 strikes every other night that we didn’t have baseball practice. He’d come home from work, we’d eat dinner, then he’d put on some shin guards and a mask. I’d go stand 46 feet in little league and 54 feet in Pony and literally pitch to him until I threw 100 strikes. This was before sabermetrics and moneyball, 100 just seemed like a good number to dad. In any case as it came up I told him that it seemed pretty reasonable because even without picking up a ball for months I can throw a bunched up sock, can, golf ball, wadded towel, rock, or just about anything and hit my spot. This is because I’ve thrown about a million rocks, balls, acorns, speargrass lances, etc.
So my friend calls me up and said his son just finished his first year of kid pitch and his 9 year old was interested in pitching. My friend wanted advice on how to help guide his development. First of all, I was honored that he thought of me. Second, what a great flood of memories it brought back. I thought of the old books dad had around the house, The Art of Hitting 300 by Charlie Lau, with pictures of George Brett and Pitching with Tom Seaver. Now there are all kinds of videos and dvds, even a crappy one with Fred McGriff. But I remember holding poses to match the pictures, and my dad moving my release point, talking about the tuck, pointing my glove.
Again, the point is not to teach you how to pitch or which books to go read, the point is I could see these things like I was watching a friendly movie…. And my dad has been gone for 15 years. It brought back dozens of games watching UT play at Dish Faulk (where I would usually sneak out of the stands and try to find a cup ball game with the big kids. Do they even sell paper cups anymore?). I remember going to high school state championship games with my dad and his friends (when they’d split a six pack in the car on the way, come on y’all it was 35 years ago, and not even illegal, and there were no car seats). I remember him hitting me thousands of fungos and fly balls in the back yard. I remember him drilling me on where I was supposed to be for every position for every situation. (Playing short, man on first ball hit to right… I’m the second cut for a throw to third or cover the bag on a pop fly; same play Left fielder shades to back up errant throw to second or third). I remember the smell of leather oil when we’d oil up the gloves before the beginning of the new season and he’d wrap a softball in the pocket with a big old rubber band. I remember hitting soft toss until my hands hurt and putting on my new uniform dying to wear it to the store. Connor is starting to throw the ball around and hit from his little “swing away.” One of my neighbors just built a batting cage in his back yard. Connor also has a Velcro glove with a ball that sticks to it, and we’ve been playing a little catch in the house. God I love baseball and I love you too dad. I hope Connor looks at his own son with excitement someday and has the same wonderful memories I do.
No comments:
Post a Comment