{"id":1541,"date":"2009-08-19T06:00:41","date_gmt":"2009-08-19T13:00:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/2009\/08\/19\/between-the-lines-a-father-a-son-and-americas-pastime\/"},"modified":"2009-08-19T06:01:11","modified_gmt":"2009-08-19T13:01:11","slug":"between-the-lines-a-father-a-son-and-americas-pastime","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/2009\/08\/19\/between-the-lines-a-father-a-son-and-americas-pastime\/","title":{"rendered":"Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America’s Pastime"},"content":{"rendered":"

Joe Shrode waxes nostalgic about his Little League days, and poetic about being a coach, a husband, and a father to his son Sam, who steals the show with witty one-liners and insight that shows maturity beyond his years.<\/em><\/p>\n

“I had no relationship with my alcoholic, absentee father. Even though he played minor league baseball I never ‘had a catch’ with him. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve now been coaching youth baseball for 18 years, and now my 8 year old son\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s team. I understand the value of that relationship, and the effects of its absence.”\u00c2\u00a0 Those were the first words Joe Shrode wrote to me when he introduced himself, and his manuscript and web site, both entitled Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Pastime.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

It was a bold statement, sent from one stranger to another, but little did Joe realize that we share a kinship of sorts, parallel lives at one end but polar opposites at the other.\u00c2\u00a0 My father was also an alcoholic, but whereas Joe’s dad never made it to any of his games, mine was always there, at least until high school.\u00c2\u00a0 Not only did we share a catch, but he taught me almost everything I needed to know about the game\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthe rest I learned from books and TV\u00e2\u20ac\u201dhit me grounders, pop ups and fly balls, and threw me batting practice with an arm that gave out years before and had little life left in it.<\/p>\n

But while my father was there physically, the emotional abuse I suffered until I was 16 was as scarring as his absence would have been had he chose not to come to my games.\u00c2\u00a0 He stopped appearing when I made my high school team.\u00c2\u00a0 Like many of the boys in Joe’s outstanding manuscript, I looked up into the stands to see if he was there, disappointed when he wasn’t, but relieved at the same time.<\/p>\n

Joe’s father died when he was a sophomore in high school; mine died six months after my 21st birthday.\u00c2\u00a0 Joe’s dad played 10 games of minor league baseball in the Coastal Plain League in 1949 but never made it to the majors; my dad never played professional ball, but hoped his son would.\u00c2\u00a0 No doubt, both were disappointed.\u00c2\u00a0 Joe and his wife Cathy have a son named Sam, who has been coached by Joe since he was old enough to hold a bat.\u00c2\u00a0 I have a son who I really didn’t know until he was 11 and who played baseball sparingly, choosing football instead.<\/p>\n

My son and I have a fantastic relationship and I’ve proudly watched him go from a confused, emotionally conflicted kid to a powerful, strapping, intelligent man who succeeded on the gridiron\u00e2\u20ac\u201dhe was named first team all-conference on both sides of the ball his senior year of high school and earned a scholarship to Western Oregon University\u00e2\u20ac\u201din the classroom, where he’s studying to be a doctor, and in life, where he has a beautiful, intelligent fiancee and a firm grasp of what he wants to do and what he needs to do to get there.\u00c2\u00a0 I couldn’t be prouder.<\/p>\n

Joe’s son, Sam, is only eight and they too have a fantastic relationship.\u00c2\u00a0 In one passage of Joe’s manuscript, he writes about a parent who accuses Joe of living vicariously through his kids.\u00c2\u00a0 While reading it, I felt myself living vicariously through Joe’s relationship with Sam, which is one of the two focal points of the book.\u00c2\u00a0 I missed those years with my son, but feel fortunate to have experienced Joe’s joy at Sam’s development both as a human being and a baseball player.<\/p>\n

Joe’s manuscript transitions from his youth to his adult life; from his experiences in Little League to his experiences as a coach; from thoughts about dealing with his “alcoholic, absentee” father to his thoughts about what it’s like to be a father and the pleasure he derives from it.\u00c2\u00a0 The manuscript jumps from childhood to adulthood throughout, but the transitions are fluid and expertly handled and I found myself enjoying both periods of Joe’s life immensely.<\/p>\n

He does a fantastic job of capturing what it was like to be a Little Leaguer\u00e2\u20ac\u201dthe bike rides to the ballpark, new cleats and uniforms, sitting in the dugout with friends, crying after a strikeout or an error, the pressure and uncertainty of tryouts, looking at your parents and coach for affirmation after every at-bat or play in the field, watching the dark clouds roll in and praying that it doesn’t rain, then being devastated when it does.\u00c2\u00a0 He does an equally fantastic job of capturing what it’s like to be a coach and by the end of the manuscript you understand why one of his players insists on thanking him for being his coach at every opportunity.<\/p>\n

The manuscript is poignant and humorous, and the highlights come during Joe’s interactions with Sam, who is hilarious throughout, the adults playing the straight man, while the toddler spews amusing one-liners that had me laughing out loud.\u00c2\u00a0 There are also some very touching moments that brought tears to my eyes.\u00c2\u00a0 Such is the power of Joe’s writing.<\/p>\n

There’s a moment towards the end of the book when an elderly woman turns towards Joe and Sam, who have been watching a baseball game together, and says “Enjoy these times; they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re special.”<\/p>\n

Sam tugs on Joe’s sleeve. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Daddy, what did that grandma say?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, mostly she said baseball is special.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

It is, indeed, Joe.\u00c2\u00a0 It is, indeed.<\/p>\n

With Joe’s permission, I’ve posted the preface to his manuscript, which hopefully will be available soon<\/em>.\u00c2\u00a0 To read excerpts from his book, please check out his fabulous web site, Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Pastime<\/em><\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n

PREFACE<\/strong><\/p>\n

Imagine a baseball park that holds millions of fans. The outfield fence is thousands of feet from home plate. Twelve-year-olds are eight feet tall and can throw the ball 200 miles per hour.<\/p>\n

Such a place exists. I played there when I was 10. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s one of dozens of small fields that that dot the west side of Evansville, in the southwest tip of Indiana, where thousands of kids play baseball every summer. Yet it seemed like the whole world could fit between those base lines. Twice a week for two hours, it did.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6<\/p>\n

I remember how cool my first uniform was. I remember which coaches would pat me on the back even when I struck out, and which ones would yell at me. I remember which coaches told the little guys not to swing because they couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t hit. I remember what it felt like to be a nine-year-old playing against 12-year-olds, and the sting of hearing the opposing coach holler, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Easy out!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I remember how proud I was when an opposing coach would yell, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Back up. Good hitter,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d to his players. I always knew my mother was in the stands \u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 and my father was not.<\/p>\n

When I was 30 years old, a friend asked me to help coach his son\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s baseball team. It had been a long time since I played baseball, but the game hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t changed. I hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t forgotten about balls and strikes, hits and outs, and how to win games. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all there is to it, right? Sure, I can coach baseball. So I did.<\/p>\n

Several years later I coached in a league located just a few miles from Evansville West Little League, where I played. A coach from West asked if I was interested in playing a practice game against his team (A coach from West and I arranged for our teams to play a practice game against each other). So I returned to that field for the first time since I was twelve years old. This time, I was the coach of twelve boys, age 10-12. The sign hanging on the outfield fence said \u00e2\u20ac\u0153185 feet.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d The top of the wooden bleachers was only six rows up, and they were empty. Could this possibly be the same field?<\/p>\n

As the young ball players walked to the plate to face live pitching for the first time, they looked down the third base line to the coach\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s box, where I stood. They turned to me for signals, advice, a word of encouragement, or merely to see a friendly face. Some looked to me for a place to hide. I could see it in their eyes: There it was\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6that field where the fence was more than a thousand feet away, and where at least a million fans screamed in the stands. I knew that whatever I said at that moment, whatever I said after they struck out or hit a home run, would probably remain in their minds for the rest of their lives.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6<\/p>\n

A few more years went by, and my friend no longer coached with me. His son was graduating from high school, and I was getting married. But I still coached and looked forward to the day when a son of my own would be included on the roster.<\/p>\n

After three years and countless dashed hopes, an infertility specialist told my wife, Cathy, and me that we could never have our own biological child. Months later, an expectant mother told us that she had changed her mind; she would not adopt her child to us after all. Six months after that, it happened again. I was still coaching \u00e2\u20ac\u201d and dealing with the hurt and disappointment of knowing I may never be a dad. I would never coach my child\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s baseball team, or write \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Shrode\u00e2\u20ac\u009d on a lineup card. Then one afternoon, I got a call from a friend. A partner in his legal firm had been contacted by a young woman who was unable to keep the child she was expecting to deliver soon. Adoptive parents had been chosen for her baby, but she felt uneasy about the adoption arrangement. Through a series of events that can only be called miraculous, this selfless woman selected us to be the beneficiaries of the most precious gift imaginable.<\/p>\n

Two weeks later, our son was born. His name is Sam. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Sam\u00e2\u20ac\u009d is a good, solid, down-to-earth \u00e2\u20ac\u0153barber shop\u00e2\u20ac\u009d name \u00e2\u20ac\u201d like Gus and Ed and Bill. Samuel means \u00e2\u20ac\u0153gift from God.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

Sam is my son and I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m his father, and his coach. Now I write \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Shrode\u00e2\u20ac\u009d on the lineup card every game.<\/p>\n

Sam has changed everything. My view of the world has become both immeasurably larger and infinitesimally smaller than it was before. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve learned to see through the penetratingly deep brown eyes of a little boy (again). Yet, I still feel that most of life\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s dreams and fears, hopes and challenges, joyful conquests and painful losses are mirrored in the game of baseball. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all right there: in the taste of dirt as you slide into home plate; the sweet-stale smell of a favorite leather glove; the thwack of bat against ball, and the strange sensation of flying when you hear the words, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Over the fence! It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s gone!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d; the sounds of hands clapping, cheers and taunts; stands full of spectators, both friend and foe; the ache in your chest when a hard-fought game ends with an \u00e2\u20ac\u0153L\u00e2\u20ac\u009d behind your team\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s name; and the emerald-green grass that leaves indelible reminders on the knees and elbows of once-white uniforms, of brilliant saves and valiant tries. The whole world really is contained right there, between those base lines.<\/p>\n

What I remember most about Little League has little to do with baseball. It has almost nothing to do with balls and strikes, hits and outs, or winning games. The \u00e2\u20ac\u0153best\u00e2\u20ac\u009d coaches are not those who know the most about the game, but those who know something about the players, who focus less on coaching baseball and more on coaching kids.<\/p>\n

Now I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m the coach. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m not perfect. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve never made a video and I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m probably not qualified to be hired by the local high school. Many coaches know a lot more about baseball than I do. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t always know what to say. But I used to be a kid, and kids know what makes a good coach or a bad one. I had both.<\/p>\n

I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m not sure why, but I vividly remember events from my childhood as though they happened only days ago. In particular, I remember being a Little League baseball player. There is probably a psychological explanation for it, but the important thing is that these experiences had a life-long effect. Somewhere between adolescence and the age of 30, I had forgotten some of those valuable lessons. They had been buried beneath the obligations of adulthood. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m lucky, though. During 18 years of coaching I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve had over 300 kids, and now Sam, to help me remember.<\/p>\n

Baseball is at the center of those long-ago memories that formed and shaped who I am. For you, it might be football, tennis or golf, band or the speech team. Maybe it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s academics or your best friends, or simply the joy of being young. Whatever it is, I hope these stories help you remember.<\/p>\n

We all have stories to tell, but to find their deeper meaning, sometimes we have to look between the lines.<\/p>\n

If you’re a Facebook member, please support Joe and join his “Between the Lines” group<\/a>.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Joe Shrode waxes nostalgic about his Little League days, and poetic about being a coach, a husband, and a father to his son Sam, who steals the show with witty one-liners and insight that shows maturity beyond his years.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[9],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1541","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-general"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1541","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1541"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1541\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1541"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1541"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/seamheads.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1541"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}