Loyalty to Hero and Team Unconditional

You may have noticed that from time to time in these columns, I refer to a favorite major league baseball team of mine as “my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates”. Since 1971, the Pirates have reigned supreme as my favorite team in any sport. We did have a brief separation in 1997 when they parted with my favorite manager, but I eventually returned after a few months of pouting. Unfortunately, I returned to futility. Recently my Pittsburgh Pirates were tabbed by one publication as the worst franchise in all of professional sports. Ugggh. They haven't had a winning season since 1992, when they blew a two-run 9th inning lead that would have sent them to the World Series. My advance-purchase World Series tickets went unused. So why do I still give my heart to this hapless band of cellar dwellers? Simple. I am loyal. I fell in love with the Pirates when I was seven. And jumping off the bandwagon isn't my style. Though I loved them all, my favorite two Pirates were Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell. Clemente led the team to the World Series title in '71 and died tragically a little over a year later. A child's heart was broken. But I still had Willie. “Pops”, as he later became known, was my absolute hero. He was a huge, left- handed power hitting first baseman and I was an undersized, righty-hitting shortstop but it mattered not. Willie was my hero and because of him, I worked hard not only at baseball, but also at school and at life. I played on a little club team (they called it the minor leagues) when I was seven called the Pirates. During a real Pirates game on the Saturday Game of the Week on one occasion, the announcer referred to prospects in the minor leagues. Due to my extreme naivete, I assumed that since I played minor league, my team was somehow connected to the big league Pirates and they were monitoring our progress closely. No one could have convinced me different. Some thirty years later, I asked a Pirates scout friend of mine how Willie was doing. My friend informed me that Pops was extremely ill due to a kidney disease and his days were numbered. Heartbroken, I went home and typed a letter on my computer. The contents of that letter will remain private but basically I poured out my heart about how an African-American slugger in Pittsburgh inspired a small town white kid from North Carolina to dare to dream. And I was a better person because of him. Through a previous connection with the Pirates general manager at that time, I was able to get my letter to the Pirates organization. A few weeks later my scout friend assured me Willie had received my letter while in the hospital. A week or two after that on April 9, 2001- ten years ago this month- a voice on my truck radio informed me that my hero had fallen. A thirty-seven-year-old college baseball coach choked back a tear as the memories flowed. Unlike many money-chasing stars of today, Willie Stargell played for one team his entire career. And as long as I'm around- no matter what their record is- Willie's team will always be my team, too.

The Value of Trophies

The national championship trophy was presented at a basketball game recently. After a championship victory, everybody wants to hold the trophy. Sometimes they kiss it. One time a pro bowler dropped his championship trophy and it shattered into various pieces about ten seconds after he received it. Tragic, yet quite humorous. Sometimes people refer to animals they have hunted and conquered as trophies. Trophies in different sports can be shaped into cups, mugs, belts, animals, or posing athletes. And in the most outlandish usage of the term, men sometimes inexplicably refer to their spouses as trophy wives. (I'm not a female so I don't know how I would feel being referred to as a trophy.) When I was growing up, trophies were synonymous with championships. Usually only first place finishers got a trophy. I was excited to get my first trophy as an eight-year-old. However, I was curious and felt slightly guilty that the team members and I each received trophies despite finishing in second place. Don't misunderstand me here. I'm not against every kid getting a trophy just for being on a team and making it through the season. That's fine. But the reality is at some point, only those at the top will get the trophies. To the victor go the spoils, they say. Three years ago I watched as the winner of the tournament my baseball team was playing in hoisted the championship trophy up in the air near home plate. We battled for five days and lasted fifteen innings in the championship game before they finally beat us. But when all was said and done, they got a huge trophy and we didn't get so much as a certificate. All we could do was watch. Second place was first loser in that instance. But I'm not so sure in the long run trophies mean all that much anyway. I think the memories of the achievement far outlast the hardware received. I still cherish the memories of the 2008 tournament run and I don't need a trophy to remind me how special that team and those moments were. Take, for example, the number of trophies you see with dust all over them at thrift stores. Somebody gave their heart and soul for that trophy and yet, there it sits on the shelf with a $2 price tag on it. Eventually someone will buy it and change the nameplate so they can cherish their own particular accomplishment and thus the trophy can be recycled over and over again. I have a box full of trophies from my younger days but to be honest, I'm not exactly sure where they are now. My parents begged me a long time ago to remove the box from their cluttered attic. I took a look in the box a few years back. Some of the trophies brought a smile to my face as I remembered the pride with which I had accepted them- including the second place one and to be honest, a few third placers. I realized then that the treasure was not in the trophy but in the experience. Earthly objects don't mean that much in the ultimate scheme of things. And you can't buy memories in the thrift shop. But if you're desperate enough to try, for $2 you can change the nameplate.

Heroes in the Midst of the Madness

Despite a busy spring baseball season as a coach, I've caught a few minutes here and there of what they refer to in college basketball as March Madness. This year's tournament has produced more than its share of incredible performances. I've heard announcers and commentators refer to outstanding players as heroes during the madness. They speak of their courage, perseverance, and faith in themselves and their teammates. And I wouldn't disagree with that assessment. I'm not here to say that they're not heroes in some sense. When you can bring a group of people together and unify them- as in a team, a university, a community, etc.- then your efforts are heroic. When you can inspire others to chase their dreams and believe in themselves, kudos to you as an athlete. Well done. But not everyone is an athlete and few folks are afforded the opportunity to compete in high profile sports competitions. Thus common heroism is often overlooked. I recently had the privilege of watching several military veterans be honored at one of the baseball games I was coaching. One of those honorees was a former player of mine named Brett. He didn't get to play much when I coached him but I knew he was destined to be a winner in life. The few times he got to play in games way back when, I would ask him, “Are you ready?” His answer was always the same. “I was born ready, Coach.” Brett served two dangerous tours in Fallujah, Iraq during his time in the Marines. On the day he was publicly recognized and threw out the first pitch, I asked again if he was ready to perform and got the standard reply. A few weeks back our church conducted an exercise known as Cardboard Testimonies, where ordinary folks stand before their church family and present a brief written synopsis of their personal story on the front and back of a piece of cardboard. It takes courage to stand before others and reveal your deepest struggles. It takes perseverance to have endured those struggles and faith not to have buckled under their weight. Don, one of our members, had within the past several months suffered a stroke that nearly took his life and eventually left him incapable of many of the normal functions he had once easily accomplished. On the morning of Cardboard Testimonies, Don- who had been told at one point that he would probably never walk again- slowly but triumphantly made his way toward the pulpit, climbed the stairs, and presented his cardboard sign for the world to see. It really didn't matter what it said on the board. When he conquered those stairs, I knew I was in the presence of a real-life hero. Many moist eyes in the congregation would certainly have agreed. I've seen my share of incredible sports highlights in my life, but Don's performance that day was among the most courageous and inspirational feats I have ever witnessed. I don't know if heroes are born or made. I only know that within the daily madness of life, I have been privileged to encounter my share of inspirational people. And I'm a better man for having had the honor of witnessing Brett ascend the ranks and Don ascend the stairs. Heroes indeed.