One Shot at Forever (6 page)

Now it was two weeks before the season and Macon once again needed a new coach. Britton had canvassed the faculty and come up empty, in part because he could offer little incentive. Though the job required longer hours and plenty of travel, it came with only a 3 percent bump in salary. Eventually, the parents of the players had decided to take matters into their own hands, which explained why Bob Shartzer was at Claire's.

“You know,” Shartzer continued, taking a deep swig of his beer. “Me and the Glans were thinking you'd make a pretty good coach.”

“That so?” Sweet said, trying to sound casual. He knew what was coming next. While plenty of parents at Macon High didn't approve of his teaching methods, the baseball dads weren't among them. Sweet had played softball with some and watched Cubs games with others. In turn, the men had seen how their sons responded to Sweet's English class, and they respected how he maintained control of his students while still making class enjoyable. Some, like junior pitcher John Heneberry's father, Jack, had heard Sweet was “too out of the ordinary, too much of a hippie longhair.” Still, it wasn't like they had many other choices.

For his part, Sweet wasn't against coaching, and had quietly mulled the option ever since Shartzer had first brought it up at a pig roast. In theory, the job appealed to him. It was the reality that worried him. Coaching baseball would require a large time commitment, and he'd have to fight McClard over every budgetary issue.

There was also the small matter of the fact that not only had Sweet never coached baseball, but, as he now reminded Bob Shartzer, he'd never coached
anything
.

“Who cares?” Shartzer replied. “Hell, the boys did fine with Burns.” He paused. “Besides, we got some talent out there, L.C., and you know it.”

This was true. In 1969, boosted by a group of young players, the Ironmen had built on a mediocre season to go 10–5 and win the school's
first conference title since 1962
. Sweet had wandered by a few of the games and was impressed by how smooth the team looked on the field.

Despite his claims to the contrary, Sweet actually knew plenty about the game. As a boy, he'd played on military bases, where he developed an easy, compact swing, and a snap throw that he released from his ear, like a catcher. Eventually he became skilled enough that, upon falling in with some baseball players in Champaign, he was invited to try out for a local semipro team during college. To the surprise of everyone, he made it. Though not a power hitter, Sweet had enough pop in his bat to hit the occasional home run, was a fine third baseman, and could take the mound in a pinch. His talent, combined with his fun-loving personality, meant he was always being asked to play for someone, somewhere, whether it was the Eastern Illinois League in Champaign or semipro circuits in southern Illinois. He was never paid for his services—unless you count beers at the tavern afterward—but he played with plenty who were.

He turned back to Bob Shartzer.

“You know I love the boys,” Sweet said. “But I'll have to think about it.”

And with that, Sweet hoped to slip out of Claire's and avoid further entreaties. Before he could make his exit, though, reinforcements arrived in the form of Ernie Miller. “If there's anyone who can get my boy Mark out there to play ball,” Ernie said, “it's you.” One beer led to two, which led to four and, pretty soon, arms were around shoulders and lineups were being discussed.

Under a hazy ceiling of cigarette smoke, buoyed by the Pabsts, Sweet began to see the job in a new light. It would require a lot of time, but he was a single guy in Macon—all he had was time. And the more he thought about it, those boys did have potential. It might not be evident to most in the town, but it was to him. They could be good, he thought,
real good
. All they needed was someone to believe in them.

A week later, he walked into Britton's office and made an announcement: He'd take the baseball job.

If Sweet needed reason to doubt his decision, he got it on March 4, 1970, the first day of practice.
After two days of rain
, the morning dawned cold, dark, and misty. That afternoon, when Sweet made his way out to the field at 3:30, it was through a marshy outfield.

The players were accustomed to playing in brutal conditions. Historically, Macon's weather cycle was uncannily in sync with the baseball season, the rains increasing through the spring and peaking in late May, during the heart of the schedule. Early season games were often held in a light drizzle or, if it happened to be dry, a 45-degree temperature that felt ten degrees colder due to the winds tearing across the Illinois plains. Snowfall had forced many a March practice inside, where the boys made do with tennis balls and Wiffle balls in the cramped gym. Because of all the cancellations, Macon sometimes played as few as eight conference games a year.

By these standards, Sweet's first day was downright temperate, plagued by only an early morning shower. As the boys warmed up on the waterlogged grass under a weak spring sun, Sweet stood near the backstop with his glove under his arm. Scanning the field, he mulled potential lineups.

On the mound, throwing half-speed, was Doug Tomlinson. A senior, Tomlinson was the closest Macon High had to a big man on campus—a star on the basketball team, the quarterback of the football team, and a member of the National Honor Society. He was both Macon's best returning hitter and its ace, armed with an overpowering fastball and an effective curveball. Tall and handsome, with dark hair, droopy eyes, and broad shoulders, Tomlinson was the kind of kid for whom it seemed everything came easily. Even so, as the only remaining starter from the 1968 team that won only one game, he of all the boys most felt the weight of the team's history.

Behind the plate, thick and imperturbable, squatted junior Dean Otta. Sweet had never seen a catcher quite like Dean. A tough country boy, he eschewed signs, instead telling his pitchers to “just throw it up there and I'll catch it.” This might have proved disastrous had Otta not possessed an eerie ability to stop most any pitch. He blocked balls with his body, snared them above his head, and, if they sailed too far off the plate, was known to catch them barehanded.

Out at shortstop, his brother, Dale, scooped up grounders. Though twins, the two were easy to tell apart. While Dean was wide and solid with a wedge for a jaw, Dale was tall, thin, and light on his feet. He'd led the team in batting average as a freshman and finished his sophomore year tied with Tomlinson for the best mark, all while displaying one of the best arms on the team. A serious, introverted boy, Dale provided a counterbalance to some of his fun-loving teammates. Sweet expected him to emerge as a team leader, if not a vocal one.

To Dale's right, chin jutting out, Steve Shartzer emitted a steady stream of smack talk. Shark had grown into a strong-armed third baseman, talented hitter, and imposing pitcher. He was also perhaps the cockiest sixteen-year-old Sweet had ever met. Still, the coach had developed a soft spot for the boy.

Next to Shartzer, taking turns at third base and in the outfield, was wispy junior John Heneberry, the last of the team's trio of starting pitchers. So lanky as to appear almost undernourished, Heneberry had missed all his sophomore season with mono. He mystified Sweet. Even though the other boys swore he had great stuff, to Sweet's eye the kid had one of the weaker arms on the team. At one point, Sweet wondered aloud why Heneberry kept practicing his changeup. Finally one of the boys had told him that wasn't Heneberry's changeup. It was his fastball.

Across the diamond, doling out grounders, was first baseman Jeff Glan. In most respects, Glan was the opposite of the prototypical tall, homer-bashing corner infielder. Only five-foot-seven, he was primarily a singles hitter. Not blessed with speed, he had a habit of throwing his chin back when he ran, making it look as if his head might topple off its mooring at any instant. The son of a farmer who worked a second job at the Pittsburgh Plate Glass factory, he was also the best student on the team and a pithy speaker given to occasionally quoting philosophy.

Out in right field, wearing thick black glasses and chewing gum, Brian Snitker shagged fly balls. Though only a freshman, Snitker possessed a smooth, powerful swing. It was a good thing, too, because on a team of speedy players he was even slower than Glan. As Shartzer loved to crack about Snitker, “There's dead people that can outrun him.”

In center field was freshman Stu Arnold, the one-time runt of the Elwin team. Now a graceful, dark-haired boy, Arnold had a natural feel for the game, and was renowned for getting ungodly jumps on fly balls. With his high cheekbones and killer smile, he was also the closest thing Macon High had to a matinee idol. Though only a freshman, he'd already been asked to the prom by perhaps the prettiest senior in the high school.

Over in left field, Sweet could make out the diminutive figure of Mike Atteberry, pudgy-cheeked and wearing oval, black-rimmed glasses. A senior and talented hitter, Atteberry was the rare Macon athlete who didn't play multiple sports, though not for lack of trying. Growing up, he'd always loved football and basketball. But while all the other boys hit growth spurts, he remained stuck at a shade under five feet. Baseball was the only sport at which he could succeed. Then, after his junior year, finally and much to his delight, Atteberry sprouted six inches. He now stood a relatively towering five-foot-seven.

Finally, Sweet's eyes turned to the blond boy at second base, the one with the quick feet and sure glove. Ernie Miller had been right: Sweet's hiring
had
convinced his son to play baseball. A natural leader, Mark Miller was funny, charming, and unusually empathetic for a teenager. Sweet had a hunch that if anyone could help him keep Shartzer in line, it would be Miller.

After fifteen minutes, Sweet called the boys over. One by one they jogged in until all fourteen were present. It was not an imposing crew. Those that weren't scrawny were small, and those that weren't small were scrawny. After performing a head count, Sweet cleared his throat. “I've got good news boys,” he said, affecting a mock serious tone. “You've all made the team.”

The players looked around, unsure whether they were allowed to laugh.

Sweet continued.

“Alright, I've got some rules to go over,” he said. “The first one is that I'm not going to have many rules.”

Next, he announced that practice was optional. If any of the boys didn't want to play ball, he wasn't going to force them. Also, there would be no wind sprints, punishments, or lengthy pregame speeches. When it came to strategy, if a player felt he could steal a base during a game, he should signal Sweet that he was going, not the other way around. And as far as who played where, Sweet told them to work that out among themselves. After all, they certainly knew better than he did.

The boys stared at him, then at each other. Was he for real?
Optional practice? Pick your own position?
It was quite a contrast from Burns, who'd known little about baseball but plenty about discipline.

Burns had been a Britton special, hired to toughen up the kids. Standing six-foot-two and weighing in the neighborhood of 250, he looked like a tractor with a flattop. Burns grew up in Kennett, Missouri; played tackle at Arkansas State; and was
fond of ordering the boys
to lie on their backs and close their eyes while he recited speeches from
Patton
at a tremendous volume, yelling, “NO DUMB BASTARD EVER WON A WAR BY DYING FOR HIS COUNTRY!” During football practice, if a running back missed his cut, Burns grabbed the poor boy by the shoulder pads and yanked him onto his ass, whereupon he loomed over him and shouted, “Where are YOU going, you little BIRD-HEADED BASTARD?!”

Under Burns, the kids knew to await orders, just as they had with Tim Cook, their hard-driving junior high coach who believed yelling was the primary component of coaching. But now here was Sweet, who seemed intent on not giving any orders at all. What's more, just as in English class, he told the kids to call him not “Coach” or “Sir,” but just “Sweet.” Dale Otta looked around at his teammates, then back at his new coach, with his long hair and crazy sideburns.
This
, Otta thought,
is going to be an interesting season
.

During the first week of practice, Sweet was struck by how fluid the boys looked. Dale Otta and Miller turned the double play as well as anyone he'd seen at the high school level; Glan ran infield practice with a coach's precision; and Shartzer and Dean Otta appeared to have an innate understanding of each other when on the mound and behind the plate.

Then again, the boys should have looked smooth, for they had been playing with or against each other their entire lives. Unlike schools fed by a number of communities, Macon High drew from only two towns: Macon and Elwin. Since there were only so many athletic kids of a certain age, this meant the Macon sandlot team looked an awful lot like the Little League team, which looked an awful lot like the junior high and high school teams. The same held true for other sports. If the baseball players didn't play football, or vice versa, there wouldn't have been enough kids for either squad. So Dale Otta was Macon's shortstop … and small forward … and tight end, while Glan was also a quarterback and point guard. At times, the school's shallow athletic pool led to some comic lineups. The starting center on the basketball team was Shartzer, who stood but five-foot-eleven, while Heneberry made for one of the more improbable defensive ends imaginable at five-foot-nine and 125 pounds.