A plaque only a championship coach could love

I’ve decided there is a direct correlation to the beauty of a softball trophy and the actual achievement. And it doesn't go the way you might think.

You have to understand that I’ve been coaching coed softball teams for 13 years. I’ve presided over some decent teams and some teams where we all considered not getting hurt and still being on speaking terms at the end of the season an accomplishment.

The top prize has been elusive -- a lofty goal. Oh, we start each season thinking that we were going straight to the finals, and that the regular season was a formality intended as an enjoyable way to spend June and July.

The People’s Team came close -- twice. We founded the Flint Journal’s coed team in response to what we felt was the unfairness, elitism, and unpleasantness of the company’s men’s team. Our credo was that we would have fun and still make sure everybody played.

We won more than we expected, and one year, all the stars seemed to be in alignment and we went to the championship. The opponents, who had not won a game during the regular season, appeared with players we never saw before – really good ones. It did not end well.

That same summer, we went to what was once a casual tournament for newspaper teams, and again went to the finals. We went up against a team from one of the Detroit papers, stocked with players we were convinced had never seen the inside of the Detroit newsroom. That, too, did not end well.

We moved across the state in 1999, and I was very content to be just a player again. But the church team needed someone to take the helm when we had some many players that we could split in two.

The church team is named Know Mercy. I found out later that they picked the moniker because the team not only lost every game its first season, but lost by the mercy rule in each game. The players at the time thought the name was both accurate, and appropriate for a nice Lutheran church.

In the irst year with me at the helm, we earned this fine plaque:


Third place in the consolation round is another way of saying we lost the first game, then managed to win one or two against other teams that lost a game before getting sent home.

It's beautiful, with the little 3-D effect working there. It proudly hangs in the baseball room, not far from the Newsday front page of Jesse Orosco leaping for joy in 1986.

We were good in 2009, and cruised through much of the season. We have a great pitcher, some dangerous hitters and solid female players, which are the key in a coed league. The guys tend to balance out, and teams typically have a bunch of them. But the girls usually bat four or five times a game compared to twice or three times for the guys.

I thought we finally had a team that could go the distance. I mean I really thought we could do it, not the usual pre-season optimism. Alas a communication error prompted some players to arrive late to a first-round playoff game, causing a forfeit.

We marched our way through the losers’ bracket, getting to the final round. There’s a chance I carried on like Jesse Orosco after pounding our rivals in the last game. But deep down, we wondered if we could have gone all the way had we not goofed up that first round game.

The league director brought over the Consolation Championship plaque, and I had great expectations after the beautiful third place prize. We got this:



We were under whelmed. But still proud to accept. It hangs in my cubicle in the newsroom.

But that taste of near-victory led to greater expectations for this season. And with good reason. The second church team sort of fell apart, and two of the best players came to play with us. Most of the heroes from the year before were returning, and we picked up some new friends.

And there was another reason. My son was turning 18, which meant he was finally old enough to play on the same team as his dad. I got all choked up just thinking about it.

Things did not turn out entirely as expected early on. Some of our biggest guns had some other commitments and missed some games, out biggest was injured playing basketball and things just didn’t fall into place when they needed to. We lost some close games to good teams, and got pounded by some very good teams. We even had a tie game, which had not happened before.

We closed the regular season limping with one win, one tie and, well, more loses than we dared to count.

But I told the team we needed to shake off all that baggage and start anew. Most of the other commitments had been completed, my shortstop was declared healthy and things started to click.

We bounced a team out of first round, and squeaked around the team we tied in the second – our first winning streak of the season.

We caught fire. The defense flashed leather previously unseen. Our great pitcher tossed the first shutout in team history. We finally started getting runs in bunches.

Each win afforded new confidence. We faced our rival, the St. Matthew’s Monsters, in the championship game.

Throughout the week, teammates traded e-mail brimming with confidence. But I couldn’t help but think back to those two championship games in 1996, and the disasters that ensued.

We scored three runs in the first inning, and the Monsters replied with one of their own, on a contested call, I might add.

We nursed a 3-1 lead for most of the game, an unusually low score for coed softball. But we tacked on three more in the sixth, no help from the coach. “Mr. Clutch” was so nervous that I popped meekly to first base twice, nearly had the team bat out of order, and directed a player to accept a walk that she wasn’t entitled to.

There’s a chance there was much pacing and angst. More than one player lovingly admonished, “Calm down, Chipper.”

We added a seventh run in the top of the seventh, the final inning. Up 7-1, I directed my son to run out to the outfield because I wanted him to experience what I thought was about to happen. Too nervous to field myself, I bounced all over the place.

Usually I can report the details of each play for our game notes. I have no recollection of what actually happened that inning, other than we shut the Monsters down then raced to the center of the infield to celebrate. It was, after all these years, a very good feeling.

After all the hugs, the league director walked over with a large plaque wrapped in plastic, offering his congratulations.



I’ve been told that it looks like something that escaped from a 1970s roller disco, Others said it looks like a bad 1980s sci-fi movie’s backdrop.

We have a tradition were everyone in the team signs the back of the plaque. We all passed it and posed for a photo. We pointed to the word, "champions" and overlooked the rest.

The plaque has made the victory tour. Pastor asked me to hold it up so the congregation could see. I think some people were a little frightened.

It’s also been to work, where it will probably be on permanent display since my wife said she doesn’t want in the house, much less in the living room, where I first suggested it hang in glory for all to see.

One person walked over to my desk and stopped in mid-sentence. “Boy, that’s, um, some plaque.”



And I smiled. Yes, it is.

To see more about our season and our cool collector cards, check out Know Mercy Softball

We win!

I had the pleasure of coaching one of my church's two co-ed softball teams, consisting of probably the coolest group of people ever.

We're celebrating a big win in Wednesday's tournament, claiming the consolation championship in a 16-3 pounding of the Double-Baggers.

Thanks for a wonderful season!

Broadway Brett, Coney Island Joe and the rest of the Friday Five

There’s a good chance we’re done traveling for the summer. All this time on the road has provided for adventures, but I’m behind in many things, including blogging.

Let’s just say we got some spring yardwork taken care of this week, and the underground sprinklers are good to go — after four tips to Lowe’s and more profanity than even the Mets bull pen can generate.

We even have a semi-late Deezo Friday Five to offer:

1) I have a love-hate relationship with Topps’ Heritage sets.

I love the idea of putting modern players in old-fashioned designs, especially with the level of detail that Topps provides. They’re usually beautiful cards.

But the downside is that they’re way too expensive and the sets are filled with short-printed cards, making them more expensive and impossible for me to ever assemble a complete set.

This year, the company’s Bowman Heritage has some photos that are so brilliant that it hurts. Topps had fun tinkering with the backgrounds. Some of the cards have old stadiums such as the Polo Grounds and Ebbets Field, and others have city icons.

Check out Tom Glavine’s card, which combines both elements of Shea and Citi Field under construction. Too bad Glavine is a known Met saboteur.

Then I saw this sweet card of Joe Smith with the Coney Island Wonder Wheel in the background. Clearly this is the best card of the year, possibly second to the 1972 Topps Tom Seaver.


2) Having trouble deciding who this shirt is aimed at. A real Phillies fan would want nothing that looks like a Mets logo, just like I wouldn’t even consider anything reading "Yankees" on my body.

Maybe this is for a Phillies guy who knows he should be rooting for the Mets, but just can’t bring himself over to the right side.

Or maybe it’s for someone who lives in Jersey between both teams and is just, well, confused.


3) Speaking of shirts, I’m convinced that Cafe Press has a shirt for everything.

A little back story here. My daughter and her fifth-grade friends started a little elementary school publishing empire, producing books based on the same characters, Mr. Otter and Mr. Otter Jr.

One day I read one of her books and was startled to see a passage where Junior was unhappy that someone at a fast food restaurant incorrectly filled his kiddie meal order and casually circled the place and lobbed a hand grenade through the drive-through.

The rest of the book had other acts of random mischief that prompted my son to say that, if the book was made in to a video game, it would be called "Grand Theft Otter."

I was contemplating counseling until learning that the rest of the authors were boys and the body counts in their tomes was far higher, and my daughter was just writing to appeal to their tastes.

Nevertheless, the idea of casually tossing a grenade has become sort of a family inside joke.

Then poking around Cafe Press one day I discovered a design of an otter, holding a hand grenade. Part of me was horrified that someone else would link otters and explosives, and the other part wondered if we could sue for trademark violations.



4) My softball team picked up a little hardware this year. And we were so close to something so much bigger.

After demolishing our opening round opponent, we faced the goon squad of the league that, as far as I know, has never lost game. I also think they play dirty, so there is some bad blood there.

We were having the game of our lives, winning through the top of the sixth as the skies darkened. The thugs tied the game in the bottom of the sixth, and lightening started to flicker and thunder roared. After much debate and confusion, the umpires suspended the game.

We resumed a week later, missing some of our best players and still held the punks scoreless for two innings before finally allowing them to push across a run. It was a sad, sad day.

We fell apart in our second game that day, against my church’s other team, after our pitcher got hurt and I had to take the hill.

Alas we turned it on again for the last game, allowing us to claim third place in the consolation round. Our other church team claimed second place.

Usually such a finish will get you only a flier telling when next season’s league fees are due, so I was pretty happy when the umpire came over with a sweet plaque. Someday I’ll hand it over to the church. Someday.

5) Not sure how this happened. Not even sure it’s a good thing. But I’ll take it.

New Nitro has me starry eyed

I was pretty excited after the Mets dispatched the vile ones last weekend, even if it meant sitting through Joe Morgan on ESPN. Then, with rest of us, I was plunged into depression after the bleeping Braves slapped us around, sweeping four. Been that kind of week.

Luckily we have a special Memorial Day Deezo Friday Five to carry is through.


1) I’m blaming my bat for my hitting woes of last year.

It routinely failed me in clutch situations. I was fine with the bases empty. But several times I came up with the bases loaded — one time down by a run with two outs in the bottom of the last inning — and hit weak-assed infield pop-ups.

But in our second game this year I came up with the bases loaded, two outs and the game tied. So I borrowed a friend’s brand new bat and promptly hit a triple over the center-fielder’s head that gave us the victory. I was thrown out at the plate trying to stretch it into a grand slam, but I can’t blame the bat for bad base-running.

So off I went to the local sporting goods store for a new weapon to call my own. Shockingly, there are bats that cost $400. I can’t imagine what a $400 bat could possibly do, except inflict serious pain upon my noggin if my wife thought I bought one.

Needless to say, I was looking in the much, much, much cheaper section, and took advantage of a half-off sale.

Picking out a new bat is difficult. It’s not like you can take cuts there in the store, and they all have assorted mean and dangerous-sounding names.

Then, like Excalibur, I pulled a DeMarini "Nitro" from the Dunham’s sale rack and knew that life would be different form here on out.

I boldly strode to the plate and promptly walked in my first at-bat. The pitcher obviously feared the Nitro, its painted red flames glistening as it waved above my head. Then hit a sweet double in my second time in the box.

Finally, in the bottom of the last inning, we were down by three runs and had two outs when I stepped up with runners on second and third. Normally, the person keeping score would just start writing "pop-up to short" in the book while I was still on deck.

But with the mighty Nitro in my hands, I had no fear. On the second pitch I launched another double, and scored the tying run when our next batter drove a walk-off blast.


2) Someone at Sports Illustrated is going to be fired this week. The latest edition to land in my box features an article by Yankee-hack Tom Verducci talking about how this is a bizarro season because the Rays are at or near the top of the standings and his lowly Yankees are bouncing around the bottom, where they belong.

The cover is a comic-book style painting, with Bizarro Superman, who we know exists in a backward universe, watching as an unnamed Rays player is casting Derek F. Jeter over his head.
The first problem is that they painted Jeter’s name on the back of his jersey, and we know the Yankees think they are above such things. Whatever.

The second issue is that we don’t quite know where the Rays’ player has his hand. It looks like it’s in kind of an icky place.

You just know that Verducci got one look at the cover and flipped out.

It’s one thing to show Robinson Cano or Melky Cabrera or some other fringe Yankee getting tossed around like a piece of Mike Piazza’s broken bat.

But St. Derek the Intangible is off-limits. I’m still recovering from the obscene fawning that Joe Morgan bestowed on Jeter during last Sunday’s broadcast.

I imagine that ‘Ducci was in there arguing that even in bizarro world, players stand in awe at Jeter and his amazing abilities because he’s Just. That. Good.



3) I found an amazing baseball card blog — The Ugly Baseball Card Blog — that both celebrates and pokes fun at glorious cards of the past. I was all sad when I saw the 1980 O-Pee-Chee card of Freddie Patek and saw the writing on the photo. I didn’t even know he died.

Oh, the California Angels. Nevermind.

4) We all know that Mike Piazza retired this week, two days shy of the 10th anniversary of his trade to the Mets, otherwise known as the Best Day Steve Phillips’ Career as GM.

I saw a column by Ray McNulty saying that Piazza should go into the Hall of Fame as a Dodger. I’m assuming that Verducci is preparing one saying Piazza should go in as a Yankee, "Because that’s the way Mike probably wants to be remembered." But then, he’s still distraught over the who bizarro Jeter thing.

To me, it’s a no-brainer. Of course he wears a Mets logo on his plaque. And the Mets should hastily arrange a "Mike Piazza Day" where they induct him into the Mets Hall of Fame and rise No. 31 to the outfield wall so he can forever be linked with Casey, Gil, Tom, and Jackie.



5) This week’s hidden iPod gem almost didn’t even make it to the iPod. I bought a 45 of "Starry Eyes" by The Records back in 1979 and always thought it was a great song. It’s British power pop at its finest, though I can’t figure out what’s going on in the lyrics. It almost sounds like they’re singing about a bandmate who is too busy goofing off at the beach when the rest of them are taking care of business. Doesn’t matter, the song is fun and the chorus sticks in your head. And it remained in my head when I moved on to the CD era and couldn’t find the song anywhere. Then one day I was flipping through the discs in the Grand Rapids Public Library, and came across a compilation called "Poptopia" and saw some off-beat selections like Bram Tchaikovsky’s "Girl of My Dreams." Then I started doing the trademarked "Yes-Yes" dance when I saw that track 11 was the lost-lost "Starry Eyes." Enjoy.

Softball, Split Enz, Survivor and the Friday Five

Between school board elections and the Mets playing on the West Coast, I’m suffering from sleep issues.

That doesn’t bode well for my first 5K of the year, which starts at 8:15 a.m. Luckily, the course goes through downtown Grand Rapids and past a Burger King, so I can grab a quick Diet Coke to perk up. It’s not like speed is an issue for me in this race, so there will be no Clemens-like denials and apologies.

Apparently speed wasn’t a factor in posting the latest Deezo Friday Five, either. But here it is:

1) Coed softball. Our season started on Wednesday, which is late. But we needed it to stop snowing. The team is called Know Mercy because in the first year the team lost through the mercy rule in every game. Plus, we're a church team and Lutherans are subtle when it comes to evangelizing. We play much better now, even splitting into two teams because we have so many players. I’m the coach of Know Mercy 2. Luckily we have many players who are younger and better, but I did get to make sure I have jersey No. 41. And unlike Willie Randolph, I’m still likely to be managing the team by the second week in June.

2) El Kabong. My son went to see Iron Man last weekend. He said it was good. But I’m tired of super heroes all full of angst and issues, with their complicated suits and gizmos. No, give me EL Kabong, armed only with an out-of-tuned guitar and faithful sidekick dispensing justice as only a caped and masked cartoon horse can.

3) This is the best Survivor season in years. Erik was playing a decent game — until last night, when he became the stupidest Survivor. Ever. Um, Erik. After watching what those girls did to the previous three people they blindsided right into the jury, what made you think you could trust them? Maybe now he can get a bath and a haircut and sit on the jury with the rest of the duped ones.

4) I’m deep into Season 2 of ER for my daily treadmill viewing. Those episodes marked the arrival of Kerry Weaver. Back when those shows first aired in the 1990s, I told co-workers that I thought Weaver was really pretty. They thought I was crazy. There might have been some shunning involved. They had issues separating Laura Innes the actress with Weaver, the somewhat snarky character. I’m not saying she was prettier than Susan Lewis, but she abandons the show pretty soon, so it’s not like we can get too attached to her.

5) The only relative downside to an iPod with 5,700 songs on it is that occasionally one doesn’t get on a playlist and is lost amid the greatness of the Ramones, Rush, Relient K and Twisted Sister. I was bouncing around iTunes recently found one such song — "I Got You" by Split Enz. It’s one of my all-time favorites, and iTunes said it hadn’t been played since 2006. Absolutely shocking. I quickly played it about five times and added it to three playlists so this doesn’t happen again. It’s a song built entirely around the chorus, but what a fine chorus it is. It’s one of those songs that instantly takes you back in time to the magical era of the 1980s, and brings a smile to your face. The video is horrible, but enjoy the song.

Summoning the inner-Seaver

Bullpens are so specialized these days.

You got your closers, set-up guys, seventh-inning guys, and sixth-inning guys for when Clemens pitches. Oh, you know it’s true.

You also have LOOGYs, which, of course, stands for Lefty One-Out Guys.

Then you got me, your basic POLR. That’s Pitcher of Last Resort.

At least that’s the role I play on my church’s co-ed softball team. I happily take my place in the outfield, since we have two really good pitchers and a guy who does a fine job filling in.

Our team is named Know Mercy. A teammate asked if I knew how we got the moniker. I assumed because it was a church team, there’s that whole forgiveness thing.

“Oh yeah, that, too,” the right fielder replied. “But we got mercied in every single game during our first season.”

We’re better now, but it was still exciting to play for the division title on Wednesday. Except that Bo, our pitcher-coach, was out of state. And Bill, our pitcher who tossed a shutout in an earlier playoff game, was unavailable. And Kevin, who fills in when he’s not kicking butt at first base, also could not be there.

That means the responsibility falls to the POLR.

Man, I was nervous. I didn’t have time to pick out an entrance song, because the last thing I wanted to do was get Mike & the Mad Dog all riled up.

But I bravely took the bump. It was an adventure. Our other guys can place the ball. I try to get it to drop in somewhere between home plate and the back stop, hoping that the batter will swing at everything.

And it was working pretty well, except for some minor mishaps. I had forgotten that as a pitcher you just feel responsible for everything. There was a pop fly somewhere near third. Our third-basewoman – she’s very good -- called it, and this demon-like voice came out of me and called her off, making the catch.

Now, in co-ed ball, there’s only one thing worse than a guy who poaches on a female player. And that’s the guy who poaches then drops the ball. If that happens, you just walk off the field, head right to your car and go home to wallow in your shame.

Luckily, I held on to it, but I was pretty embarrassed – especially when I got back to the dugout and someone said, “Dude, you know that you were practically standing on third when you caught that, right?” Oops.

And in the next inning, I ended up making all three outs, including tagging a guy at the plate who decided to test our right-fielder’s gun.

This led to more ribbing. Every time someone caught a fly – like in deep left – people would say, “Hey, Dave, thanks for not calling him off.”

You can make such jokes when you’re winning, and we went to the bottom of the seventh inning with a 9-2 lead.

I went out there thinking: “As long as I don’t go Looper on us, the plaque and T-shirts are ours!”

Then our defense – tight all game – started to have issues. And I discovered that as a pitcher, you take these things personally. Which is entirely unreasonable.

You can’t say anything, of course. Especially when you’re just a POLR and you’ve made an error or two of your own during the season.

After the first error, you say: “Tough play, tough play.”

But inside, you’re thinking: “Wasn’t that tough.”

After the second error, you say: “OK, OK, hang in there.”

But inside, you’re thinking: “That sucked.” And you start feeling guilty for even thinking such things.

And after the third error, which allows a run to score, you say: “OK, we’ll get the next one.”

And inside, you’ve lost all control, thinking: “What the heck! That leather thing on your hand is a glove. A stinking cow gave her life so you could use her hide to catch a softball. And now, Bessie is dying in vain. A senseless bovine death.”

Then up stepped their biggest hitter, who took my second pitch and promptly deposited it beyond the center-field fence.

It then struck me. I was going Wagner v. Yankees. The score was now 9-6 with no outs. Panic was setting in.

I had to step off the mound. All I could see were Chipper Jones, Brian Jordan, Terry Pendleton, Mike Scioscia, and Derek Bleeping Jeter all grabbing bats. And that Marlin kid from Tuesday who hit the two-run jack off Wagner and threw his helmet – he was there, too.

Taking a deep breath, I realized we had to cast out those demons. I took off my Mets cap, walked around behind the mound, wiped the ball on my orange jersey and summoned my inner-Seaver.

A soft liner to third.

A grounder to short.

Then a pop-up to me, with no one around to poach from. I dropped to my knees, squeezed my glove and promised never to boo a closer again.

We got our division champs plaque, cool T-shirts and the coach handed me the game ball.

And next season, I’ll happily head right back to the outfield and try to make sure some cow died a worthy death. Until they call on the POLR!

Every Signature Tells a Story: Richie Ashburn, Frank Thomas and Coed Softball

I sure can’t blame the other outfielders on The Grand Rapids Press coed softball team if they want to wear football pads when they play along side me.

We’ve had a couple issues with collisions this season.

One of the complexities of the seemingly simple slowpitch coed ball is that you don’t want to appear to be a ball hog, which inherently implies that you don’t think the women teammates can make the plays.

So the other extreme tends to happen, where you hang back and don’t go after balls that you probably should catch. You get points for being a gentleman -- but those are not reflected on the scoreboard.

That happened once this season, and a ball that both a teammate and I each of us could have handled dropped in for a hit. In the next game, I assumed a ball was mine and April — trying not to repeat the prior incident — ran right into me. Luckily, she wasn't hurt, though we got a lecture about calling for the ball.

But two games later there was a gapper that both Gayle and I went charging for. This time I called it, but I don’t think she heard me. Wham-o! We collided at full speed, Gayle’s knee into my thigh.

I gimped off the field -- I think more embarrassed than hurt. Gayle toughed it out and stayed in the game. But later her knee started swelling up, and after a trip to the doctor learned she ruptured something, leaving her with a dark purple brusie that stretches from her calf to lower thigh.

Naturally, I feel horrible. She's wearing some kind of brace and I cringe when I see her limp across the newsroom.

But the crash reminds me of my favorite story about the 1962 Mets. It’s told wonderfully by author Roger Angell in Ken Burns’ epic Baseball documentary.

Centerfielder Richie Ashburn, a future Hall-of-Famer, was forever crashing into shortstop Elio Chacon, who didn’t speak English and didn’t understand when Ashburn was calling for the ball.

So teammate Joe Christopher pulled Ashburn aside and taught him some Spanish. “Yo lo tengo!” which roughly means “I got it!”

So the next time there was a fly ball between them, Ashburn put his new skills to the test, shouting “Yo lo tengo, yo lo tengo.” It worked perfectly, as Chacon backed off.

Except that Ashburn was then knocked flat by leftfielder Frank Thomas, who spoke no Spanish.

I was lucky to meet both Ashburn and Thomas at a card show in the late 1980s that featured a good chunk of the 1962 team, the original Mets.

Photo Updates

A little knowledge, of course, is a very dangerous thing. Now that I've learned how to add photos, I've gone back into some of the earliest posts and updated them. Here are links (which I've fixed, sorry about that) if you are interested:

Pop Shortell, Dave Winfield and Richard Nixon

Terry Nichols and the Rockies (Part One): Coors or the Keynote?

Terry Nichols and the Rockies, (Part Two): Wrangling for a Seat.

Wiffle Balls and the Meaning of Life