One Shot at Forever (34 page)

Now Sweet is laughing. “That's a genius move, man, I like that,” he says. “I didn't know you guys were so proactive.”

Informed that the Lane Tech players had in fact been out drinking and Papciak had indeed benched his catcher for too much carousing, Sweet nods. “I don't blame him. Go have fun, but answer the bell, right Shark?”

“Yup, gotta stand tall, gotta man your post,” Shartzer says. “Boys gotta know when to suck 'em and when to set 'em down.”

There are sage nods all around. Sweet gets up and walks to the refrigerator to restock the beers. Jeanne comes over and joins in. Inevitably, the talk turns to the championship game against Waukegan.

“It came down to that throw,” says Sweet. “It was on the money. Let's face it, I don't think he could do it three times in a row.”

“I'm thinking he was playing in a little bit,” says Heneberry, “knowing Jeff Glan wasn't going to hit it out of the park.”

Sweet looks up, resolute. “I'd do it again.”

Shartzer jumps in. “Hell, yes. Did I sit over there and think ‘Fuck!'? No, I was pitching and I thought, ‘What a play.' We didn't function like that. That was roll the dice, I'm letting everything ride on it and
that
was Macon at its best. One play.”

Shartzer can only stay in the safety of Sweet's place out in the country so long. It's time to go back in to Macon.

The drive takes ten minutes, past hay bales and cornfields still green with newborn stalks. Shartzer sits in the passenger seat, slugging another Bud Light, as if the beer might provide a cloak of invisibility. He tries to work through why he's here, and why he's talking about this again. “When this started, Anna said, ‘Dad, don't me and my children deserve some legacy?' It stopped me in my tracks. Children aren't supposed to be that wise.” Shartzer pauses. “That and a couple other things set me on the quest. I gotta answer this before I die. Why did I take this so hard? I don't have any more answers today than I did yesterday, but I will someday.”

They pull into town and park across from the one-story post office and the Masonic Lodge, its sign reading G
ET YOUR TICKET FOR THE FISH FRY
6/12/11. Shartzer takes one final swig, crumples up the can. “Ah fuck, might as well do this,” he says. Then he gets out of the car and walks into Whit's End.

Over the next few hours, something unexpected happens: Shartzer comes to life. It begins at Whit's End and continues across the street at the Finish Line, which looks almost exactly as it did in 1971, when it was Claire's Place. Shartzer jokes with the waitress, hugs old friends, puts his arm around people who approach him, saying, “Sure, I remember you! Remind me your name again.” A man in his fifties brings over his three children and stands there—he just wants them to meet the legendary Steve Shartzer.

What's left of the old town comes out: Jack Heneberry and Diane and Letha Tomlinson, the grown Jesse boys, and a bunch more. There is a woman here, too, one that Shartzer used to date in high school and whom he has started seeing again. Divorced, she lives in Philly now and flew in for the weekend. She's thin and pretty and when she looks at Steve there's warmth in her eyes. They make a good couple.

Here, in the Finish Line, Shartzer is different. He is funny and charming and the life of the party. There is no hint of that sad man from the Waffle House in Alabama. The pieces start to fall into place. The softball sweatshirt and hat he wears everywhere? They are not the remnants of his coaching days, some ex-jock trying to subsist on old glory, but rather from the University of West Alabama, where Anna plays softball. He has also brought a printout of her stats, and will spend much of the next day in his hotel room, following her game online. He talks about how he wants to support her without smothering her, of how much she means to him, of how most parents these days don't realize that the most important gift they can bestow upon their kids is the gift of time.

As the night wears on, Shartzer takes it all in. He buys a round for the bar, tells old stories, and then, in a quiet moment, surveys the crowd. “Look at all these people lined up, Jack and Jeanne and Lynn—these are the people I let down,” he says, waving his Bud Light in a circle around the room. And in this moment, his regret about the Waukegan game takes on a different hue. Maybe this really is about all those people—about Macon. It makes one wonder: Is it sad that Steve Shartzer still cares so deeply about his hometown that he regrets one long-ago baseball game? Or is it in some ways heroic?

One also can't help but ask: What if the Ironmen had won? How different would Steve Shartzer's life be? Would one win, one game, change that much?

Down at the end of the room, leaning on a stool at the wooden bar where he was once recruited to be Macon's baseball coach, Lynn Sweet only smiles when you ask this question. It's not that he doesn't know the answer. It's that he knows it isn't the right question.

Glancing over, Sweet watches Shartzer with a small grin. None of this is his doing, Sweet contends, even though of course it is. He's just an old English teacher, he says. What does he know?

Maybe that line once worked. But wherever Sweet goes on this night, his past follows him. Old and young, they brighten up. “Sweet!” they shout, and then they talk about how he changed their lives, how he changed the town. “Can we take your picture?” a blonde woman says upon spying him. She is with two friends, celebrating a fortieth birthday. All three took Sweet's English class in high school.

“I became a writer because of you,” the blonde says. “You influenced me so much.”

Sweet tries to brush it off. “Oh, hell, I was having more fun than you were.”

She won't hear of it. “No, you inspired me, you had such an impact.”

Again Sweet waves it off. Just as he waves off the ex-players who still come around, telling him how he changed their lives—how they became coaches because of him. “I was just a coach,” he says. “You guys did all the heavy lifting.” And if you didn't know better, you might believe him.

Talk to those who know him best, though, and the story changes.

Just a coach?
Ask Cassie Mavis, Mark Miller's daughter, about that. In 2003, when Miller learned he had pancreatic cancer, the doctor told him he had three to six months to live. He lasted three years, during which Lynn and Jeanne regularly visited and took him out fishing. During the final months, a number of his old teammates came around to see him, but one man showed up every day. Arriving with a book or a magazine, Sweet sat with Miller for hours. They didn't even have to talk. Miller might sleep, and Sweet would read. It gave Mark's wife, Lou Ann, a chance to run errands, and the family a chance to regroup. “That's something Lynn would never tell you about himself,” says Cassie. “He liked to be there when the doctor brought the daily report. It was incredible.”

When the end was near, Sweet pulled Cassie aside. “I love you, kid,” he said, and then he hugged her, even though hugging was something Sweet never did. Later, she realized it was his way of reaching out to her, of saying, I
know this is bad
. “It always made me feel a little sad when he'd do it,” she says. “Because I knew he was hurting, too.”

Just a coach?
When Miller's funeral was held in 2006, Shartzer didn't plan on attending. He still couldn't bear to face Macon. Even though Shartzer had been one of Miller's best friends, the family didn't expect him to show up. After all, Miller always said Shark would never come back to Macon again.

Then, not long before the funeral, Shartzer got a call. “Shark, I need your help on this one.” It was Sweet. He didn't demand anything, didn't browbeat him. Rather, Sweet told Shartzer that people needed him—that his teammates and his coach needed him. Shartzer booked his flight. The Miller family says it was important to see him there.

Just a coach?
Shartzer claims Sweet knows as much about baseball as anyone he met on his journey through the game—that the proof resides in Shartzer's own dominant coaching record and hundreds of victories. He says it was Sweet who taught him not to look at the forest for the trees but rather to say, “Fuck the forest, look outside all that, because it's a big world out there.” Just talking about Sweet causes Shartzer to tear up. “If I die today, I'd just like to thank him,” Shartzer says.
“It was an honor.”

Just a coach?
Every February, when Brian Snitker drives to Braves' spring training he pulls out a CD and slips it into the car stereo as he rolls through Georgia. As the opening songs of
Jesus Christ Superstar
play he sings along. Listening to the album has become an annual rite. It's a way for Snitker to remember who he was and where he came from. Inevitably, it conjures memories: of Sammy Trusner playing air piano, of Shartzer warbling along, of Sweet dealing cards on the bus.

So much has happened since then. Snitker has been to dozens of cities, coached all manner of teams, and shared clubhouses with future Hall of Famers. And yet, forty years later, he continues to draw upon the lessons of his old coach back in Macon: Treat people well, believe in them, entrust them with responsibility. Lift them up.

If you go looking for Lynn Sweet today, the chances are good you'll find him out by his lake. He might be sitting there, in one of his lawn chairs, watching the birds. Sometimes, if the mood strikes him, he'll bring his fishing pole and send a line looping out into the water. He doesn't catch much, but that's OK. Life is not in the catching, as Sweet sees it. It's the process that he enjoys.

Once in a while, when the afternoon has turned to evening, Sweet will head up Route 51, headlights illuminating the H-A-W-K-S sign outside Macon, until he reaches the turnoff and pulls into the P&V. Walking to the refrigerated case in the back, he'll pick up a twelve-pack and carry it to the counter. Then he'll look up, past the clerk, to that small
trophy on the top shelf
, its batter forever frozen in midswing.

There are those among the Ironmen who want to see the trophy moved somewhere more prominent. Maybe the community center, where it could be properly preserved, in its own glass case. Sweet's not one of them. It is just a trophy, after all. The way sees it, that's not how the season survives. “It was a beautiful thing that happened, but it's over,” he explains. Then he points to his chest. “It's in here now.”

So Sweet will allow his gaze to linger for a moment, fixed on the piece of his life that remains up on that shelf. Then, without a word, he will turn and walk out into the cool Macon night.

This book wouldn't have been possible without the assistance of Lynn Sweet and the members of the 1970 and 1971 Macon Ironmen baseball teams.

Throughout, Sweet was humble, accommodating, and insightful. He was a gracious host, a lively conversationalist, and an excellent drinking buddy. I will be forever grateful to him and Jeanne Sweet for allowing me into their life for the better part of two years. They showed me around Macon and handled my never-ending questions, follow-ups, and fact-checks with amazing good humor. I can't thank the two of them enough.

Three other Ironmen were especially giving of their time. Steve Shartzer hosted me in Alabama, shot the shit in Macon, and opened up unconditionally. He was charming, thoughtful, and uncensored, and I couldn't have written the book without his keen insight and impressive recollection of people, places, and dialogue.

Dale Otta and John Heneberry provided the backbone of much of my reporting. Otta answered endless questions, sent me boxes of old mementos, took me into the dungeons of Meridian High, and drove me around central Illinois, all without complaint, even when I mixed up the dates of our appointments (sorry, Dale). It's not hard to envision him as the rock of the Macon baseball team.

Heneberry was the ultimate raconteur. When I talked with John I always made sure to run tape, because his stories were so well-told that I often forgot to take notes. He and his wife, Karen, hosted me on multiple occasions—the deer chili was awesome, Karen—and were giving of their time.

Others from the team who provided invaluable assistance include Sam Trusner, who possesses remarkable recall and a big heart; Jeff Glan, whose quiet intelligence shone through; Brian Snitker, who exemplifies many of the best qualities of the small-town experience; Dean Otta; Mike Atteberry; Doug Tomlinson; Jim Durbin; David Wells; and Barb Jesse Kingery. And, last but not least, Chris Collins, who first emailed me at
Sports Illustrated
in 2009 suggesting a story about some long-forgotten high school team. He provided essential background and assistance on the initial magazine story, and I thank him for that.

On the publishing side, I am indebted to Matt Inman, my indefatigable editor at Hyperion. Matt stepped into the project late yet caught up almost immediately. He provided sound advice on narrative matters, was unwavering in his advocacy for the book, and proved a deft line editor. I feel fortunate to have worked with him and won't be surprised if he is running the show somewhere in the not-too-distant future.

Others I'd like to thank at Hyperion include Christine Ragasa, Jon Bernstein, and Bryan Christian.

At
Sports Illustrated
, I need to thank two people in particular. Chris Hunt shaped and shepherded the magazine article on which this book was based. There's a reason he's considered one of the best magazine editors working today. The other is Terry McDonell, for granting me the time to work on this book and always encouraging the writer's voice.