SHAGGING FLIES
My memory plays tricks on me these days. Why? Probably approaching the age of seventy-three has something to do with it. I can recall events from my childhood more vividly in pictures than the plot of the movie I watched at the theater last week. There is a certain benefit. When the movie reruns on television, I am surprised by each plot twist. Whether my memory is accurate, that’s another thing. It doesn’t really matter. It seems accurate to me, and the people are the same. Another tricky thing about my memory is that all those pictures that have gathered in its recesses can pop out unexpectedly at any time. A song, a smell, a photograph, a who-knows-what, can trigger it. For example, just last week, I took a drive out to Arizona to catch some Spring baseball before the start of the MLB season. I was sitting in the grandstands when a light breeze pushed the smell of grass into my nose, and suddenly,
It’s early April,1969 and I am about to turn fifteen years old. I’m standing in worn out cleats on freshly mown grass with mitt in hand waiting for the next fly ball to come my way. Try-outs have begun for the Servite JV baseball team. Next to me is a classmate I call Irish Joe. His full name is Joseph Brady. He has red hair, a pale pink freckled complexion, and an in-your-face attitude. I hear the crack of the wooden bat, a sound I’ve loved since my Little League days. The ball arcs my way. I take a few steps to my left and ready myself to make the catch. I brace for the impact of the ball and the sting I know will follow. As I’m about to squeeze the ball in my mitt, Irish Joe steps in front of me and snatches the ball. “Nice try qb,” he says, “but you’ll have to be a little quicker if you want to take my ball.” “Jerk,” I think to myself, but say, “It’ll be different next time Brady.” Irish Joe and I spend the next ten minutes wrestling for position as baseballs continue to fly. Another ball comes our way. “I‘ll let Irish Joe take this one,” I think to myself. Irish Joe maneuvers in front of me to make the catch. Then, as the ball arrives, he glances back to see what I’m doing. The ball smacks him square on the forehead. He staggers a bit, then recovers. I’m concerned and ready to help, but don’t let on. “That didn’t hurt,” Irish Joe says. I laugh and say, “Like one of your tackles.”
I’m feeling elated as practice continues. The smell of the grass; the warm feel of the Sun on my shoulders; the sounds of cracking bats and leather smacking leather while anxious hopefuls play catch; and the idle chatter of teen boys having fun on a sunny Spring Day is intoxicating. Suddenly, everything stops and the field grows quiet. A crowd is gathering on the adjacent track field. Something is wrong. A boy in black track shorts, a white tank top, and spikes sprints over to us. “Something’s happened to Coach Yoshida,” he says. Irish Joe immediately jogs over to the gathering crowd. I stay at practice, wondering what could have happened.
I’m coming off the JV football season and loved it. Even though I didn’t start, I had a great experience. All of the JV football players love Coach Yoshida. He led the team to an undefeated season. He was a different kind of coach; no yelling; no shaming; no unnecessary punishment; just calm, quiet, passionate caring, competence, and leadership. He’s been a tremendous influence on all of us players, most of whom are hoping to move up to the varsity football team next season with him under head coach, George Dena. Between persons standing around in a circle, I can make out Coach Yoshida lying face down on the grass. I watch as Coach Fike turns him over and onto his back. I am beginning to grasp the seriousness of the situation but don’t know how to react. I wait and watch. Another boy runs over to those of us left on the practice field. “Coach Fike is giving Coach Yoshida mouth to mouth,” he says. Minutes, seeming like hours, pass. The crowd begins to disperse. An ambulance drives onto the track field. The ambulance crew removes a gurney from the ambulance, unfolds it, then rolls it over to Coach Fike and Coach Yoshida. They carefully lift Coach Yoshida, then place him on the gurney. The ambulance drives away, no lights flashing. Whispers drift among the boys. Irish Joe trudges over to me, head down, tears in his eyes. “Coach Yoshida’s dead. He swallowed his tongue.”
Most of us JV players attended Coach Yoshida’s funeral service, together as a team wearing our home football jerseys, with great sadness and apprehension. We Catholic boys were introduced to a new and different aspect of life as Coach Yoshida’s family greeted us respectfully and appreciatively. Their beautiful words for their lost family member and their grieving exhibited such grace. I had never experienced anything like it in my close-knit Catholic community.
Looking back today as I put this memory into writing, Coach Yoshida’s untimely death at age thirty-four remains one of the great mysteries of my life. Had he not died that sunny spring day, would my Servite football experience have been different? Would our varsity football team have fared better for his leadership over the next two seasons? Would our team have stayed bonded and confident under his watchful eye? Would I have enjoyed playing football more? Would I have stayed connected to my teammates over the years? I can’t answer these questions, no one can. However, it seems to me those circumstances and fate contributed to shape my character during my formative years. I realize today, playing football didn’t matter. It really was just a game. What mattered were the people I met and with whom I interacted while playing the game. Today, Coach Dena is gone. Brady is gone; so are Stoneman, DeMuri, LaChance, Reed, Chesik, Salgado, and others. I’ll join them and Coach Yoshida one day, but until I do, I’ll wait for the next picture to appear in my memory.
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