Sat On The Can And Ended Up A Jacket

      My year as a shortstop and criminal justice major at the University of Louisville became a false start for the post-secondary education that would define the rest of this life. In January of that first college year I discovered an intense dislike for 5am indoor baseball practice and left the team before the grass started to green.       Lost without a sport or a major, I visited Stan Redwood at Randolph-Macon College over spring break. At a meeting with football coach Ted Keller I was offered a general scholarship if I maintained good academic standing for the transfer. As the meeting ended Coach Keller said "Dave, there's a spot on the Yellow Jackets if you work hard." We shook hands and I refrained from belting out Tony Valenti's bastardized baseball practice chant.      A 40-yard sprint at my first Randy-Mac football practice was a dead heat with senior tailback Mike Woolfolk who was about to break the school's career rushing ma...

     "Damn Bates, what a fucking travesty," consoles Stan Redwood from behind the wheel as we cruise by the empty Codrington Park basketball courts on a frigid New Year's night. "Yeah, first criminal justice sucks, then Buff gets run over by the mail truck, now I break up with Karen and don’t even know why,” I moan into a half empty bottle of Miller High Life as Stan pops in a cassette tape of the new Kansas album.  "You need to come down to Randy-Mac," counsels my high school friend also home for winter break. "Colloquy is going to be a blast."    "Winter ball starts next week," I retort as we drive by the Krauser's parking lot, also empty in the frigid wind, and the violin riffs into  Point of No Return . "Baseball's going to bite on a hard basketball court."      Stan had already saved my shy ass back in high school. I was one lonely jock when he plucked me from the neighborhood in his old Mercury just after getting ...

      "Cunningham, get out there at short," calls Coach Zerilla after our bats come alive in the coolness of an early October evening at Paterson Field. "He's a polished fielder," shrugs starter Brett Goff plopping down beside me at the end of the dugout and inserting a pinch of snuff behind his lower lip. "We'll see what happens in the spring.”      Our last game of the fall season against Western Kentucky had become a blowout after four innings. In the bottom of the third the Dukes and Tony Valenti had smashed doubles off the red monster before sophomore outfielder Chris “Spider” Webb cracked a towering grand slam over the low brick wall in right. This game was my last chance to show what I could do in the field before winter break, and I was spending it on the bench.      I was about to turn eighteen and I hadn't told anyone I was thinking of leaving the team after the fall, but our starting shortstop seemed to sense my growing resentment ...

      "Maybe it's better he didn't take me on that road trip," quips Steve Keller when I tell my teammate down the hall about the midnight antics of Coach Zerilla.  "Yeah, and good thing I got it down first try,” I mull as he slips an Earth Wind & Fire album onto a turntable tucked into a wooden bookshelf/desk in his tiny dorm room. “I’m not sure what I would have done if he cursed me out.” "Well I know I’m not going back out in the spring," Stevie continues as the guitar riff for Sun Goddess kicks in. "I need to ace Bio to have a shot at pre-dent."      In that fall of 1976 classes were in full steam with mid-term exams and papers due in early October. My report on Hoover and the FBI was turning up controversies I hadn’t imagined when I applied to criminal justice programs. Nepotism, persecution of political enemies, and homophobia among homosexuals were the headlines of the day for the agency I had imagined joining after college. What’s ...

      "Up against the wall!" commands Coach Zerilla as we trudge off the bus at midnight after twin losses at Southern Illinois. "If you can't lay down a bunt in a close game, maybe you'll do it now." "Coach, it's been a long, hot day," groans Tony Valenti, his bow-legged gait heading stiffly toward the field house. "We'll be out here all night if we have to, Valenti," Coach Z decrees carrying a bag of balls and a lone wooden bat over to a switch box on one of the huge telephone poles surrounding Paterson Field. "No shower until you get one down!"       The old field at the edge of campus had been home to the U of L Cardinals since 1923. A large wooden grandstand around the infield had allowed it to also be the stadium for Louisville minor league and negro league teams until the rickety old structure was torn down in 1961. A distinctive feature of the field was a tall brick wall in left field reminiscent of the green wal...

      "All right Zelmo, let's see what you've got at the plate," announces Coach Zerilla in the middle of a close second game of a hot double-header at Southern Illinois University. "Thanks," I mutter, squinting into the glaring afternoon sun while fumbling for a helmet at the mouth of the sunken concrete dugout seemingly placed to blind the visiting team. “He’s going to come at you with the curve so stay in there until it drops into the strike zone,” Z advises from behind his Ray-Bans.      My first at-bat of the fall season was a reward for a stolen base and run scored in the first game. We’d lost 2-1, but Coach Z’s use of a designated runner after a walk by Duke Schneider had paid off when Duke Shumate knocked me in from second on a long single to right center.       Our practices after being sent home early were indeed more focused, if less fun. It was a sober four-and-a-half hour bus ride to Carbondale for the noon first game. By th...

       "Morehead was supposed to be a gimme," scowls Coach Z wielding a fungo bat as cicadas rattle in the afternoon heat of early September. “From now on you’ll practice with intensity!" "A hit of Beech-Nut aughta keep us going," offers Duke Schneider tearing open a new pouch and passing it down the bleacher.  "You think this is funny?" Coach Z shouts stomping over to home plate. “Get out to your positions and repeat after me, freshmen first: ‘All my life I wanted to be a Cardinal, work hard, work hard’.”      Having what I thought of then as a punitive coach was a new experience for me. One in high school occasionally made us run extra wind sprints after a bad game or lackluster practice, but I was unsure how to respond to a coach who cursed at players and demanded work chants. We freshmen  had little choice but to go along with it, either needing to play to keep a scholarship or to earn a spot on the team. The seniors had no such constrain...

Morehead State University baseball stadium      "Listen up," calls Coach Z standing in the aisle of the charter bus on a three-hour ride to Morehead State University in Eastern Kentucky. "It's the third sign for the hitter, the fourth for the runner."  "Here we go again," whispers senior left fielder Tony Valenti from the back seat as we cross over the Licking River and enter the western Appalachians where my mother and older siblings were born. "For you hitters, a thigh touch means take the pitch, a shoulder means swing away, and brim means bunt." "What’s groin mean?" sniggers Brooklyn-born Valenti low enough that only those of us sitting near can hear, though a bobbing red mustache betrays his silent chuckle. "For the lead runner, thigh means hold, shoulder's hit-and-run, and brim is steal."      I was excited to be playing in the blue bowl of a baseball stadium at the college I probably would have gone to had my par...

      "Nice throw Zelmo," sings first baseman Duke Schneider after I field a grounder in our last practice before the fall intercollegiate season begins.  "How the hell do you know Zelmo Beaty?" I call over to Duke, shaking my head at his obscure knowledge of an old player from the now defunct American Basketball Association. "You do too!" he laughs, spewing a stream from a cheek loaded with Beech-Nut.      Back in New Jersey we often chewed gum during games. My championship high school team cracked open a jumbo pack of Big Red before every game and it propelled us to the state finals. Half the Louisville team chewed tobacco, some in loose-leaf form like Duke, others with snuff tucked under a lip.       I had decided to try it in my dorm room first, grabbing a pack of Red Man from the nearby Seven-Eleven. I stuffed a wad of the sticky leaves into my cheek as I laid down on the carpeted floor to read a chapter from my Psychology text...

      "All right ladies," declares Coach Zerilla as the whole team stands along the left field foul line at the end of the second practice, "let’s see what we've got on the basepaths!" "Aw Z, we already know the Dukes are plodders," groans senior first baseman Duke Schneider packing his second cheek with chew to buy some time before the annual team sprint. "Here, here," laughs junior catcher Duke Shumate plopping down on the dry grass to take off shin guards, his cardinal red practice jersey and gray polyester pants darkened with sweat . "I second that emotion." "One forty-yarder and we'll call it a day," Coach Z concedes before adding "but any loafers and you'll all do it again."      This was the shot I hadn’t gotten at Louisville football camp earlier that week. I’d been the fastest short sprinter on high school teams, only overtaken beyond fifty yards by the track team record holder for the hundred-ya...