Twelfth Angel (6 page)

“Look at him, Bill,” I said softly. “The kid is smiling.”

VI
 

S
aturday afternoon, or what remained of it after tryouts had ended, was spent behind my house, on the deck, reading, rereading and highlighting in glowing yellow many paragraphs in the
Little League Baseball Official Regulations and Playing Rules
.

Soon after I had started my second pass through the sixty-four pages of rules, I found myself reading a small piece, written by the Chairman of Little League Baseball, in which he briefly presented leadership qualities by which any local manager could be evaluated. Many of them sounded familiar to me until I realized that the traits necessary for good leadership, including many I had worked hard to acquire and live by in my own business career, were universal and as old as time and that they would certainly work in successfully guiding a Little League team as well as they worked in any board
room: compassion, understanding, setting a good example, cooperation, teamwork, reaching toward mutual goals, encouragement, praise, and always striving to improve. Each of the activities listed were indeed vital to a good leader, in any enterprise, but somehow I had never expected to find such wise and valuable advice in a baseball book of rules.

Reviewing the hundreds of “shalls” and “shall nots” among the pages of playing rules brought back memories of my own Little League experiences, but they faded quickly from my mind. The Chairman’s brief but powerful message was forcing me to take a long look at myself, and what a sorry image it was. John Harding, widower, no immediate family, currently on “employment leave,” despondent, aimless, potential suicide. Should that John Harding be leading a Little League team? Never! What I was about to become involved in was foolish and irresponsible, and those great kids I saw trying so hard this morning certainly deserved far better than me. How could I encourage them? How much sympathy and compassion did I have to dispense? How could I make any attempt to understand their home life while I was struggling to deal with the grim fact that I no longer had one of my own? And how could I possibly set a good example for them, fill them with enthusiasm and desire, teach them how to think positively—and never quit, never quit(!)—when I, their manager, their leader, was ready to quit the greatest game of all—life—and really didn’t care if I even lived to see another sunrise? This situation was truly my fault.
In my depressed condition I had bought Bill West’s great sales pitch because he had always been such a special friend, but it just wasn’t fair to those young and impressionable boys at an age when they already had enough problems. Not fair! However, I still had time to bail out. Then I remembered how Sally had always acted as my manager whenever I had been confronted with situations in the corporate world that I didn’t think I could handle and didn’t want to deal with. She would cup my face in the palms of her hands, look straight into my eyes and say, “Hon, I’ve never, ever seen anything or anyone beat you and I positively have never seen you give up. You can handle this problem just like you’ve handled every other. Just be yourself and you’ll come out fine.”

I shoved the rule book into my back pocket and slid open the glass door leading to the living room. After walking slowly across the room, I paused a yard or so away from the fireplace, leaned forward and stretched out my arms until both hands were tightly gripping the wooden mantel. I stared down at the hearth. To my right was a small copper pail filled with kindling wood and an old folded newspaper, and next to it was a brass log holder piled high with split maple logs. Sally had insisted that we really couldn’t claim to be official residents of our new home until we christened it with our first fire in the fireplace, so she had quickly located a local source for wood and had it delivered and stacked along one wall of the garage. I recall, so vividly, that chilly evening back in March when I had come home
late after a very rough day at Millennium, found a roaring fire in the fireplace and a proud wife anxiously waiting for my reaction. With her tiny hands clasped tightly together, as if she were pleading for mercy, and blue eyes opened wide, she had asked anxiously, “Well, how did I do?”

I remember saying, “You’ve just bought yourself another chore, lady, especially on Christmas morning.”

Rick was already in bed, so the two of us had sat on the sofa, very close to each other, holding hands and touching heads, staring contentedly into the gold-and-crimson flames.…

I pushed myself back from the mantel, turned and stared at the empty sofa, feeling so lost and alone. Then I pulled back the black-mesh screens covering the fireplace opening, reached inside and opened the chimney damper and within ten minutes I had a fire blazing. After stacking logs on the fire, as high as the top of the andirons, I slid the mesh screens closed and slumped down on the sofa—only now it was early June and I had no Sally to hug.…

For municipal budgetary reasons it had almost become general practice throughout New Hampshire in the past twenty years or so to have consolidated school districts, each composed of students from clusters of small adjoining towns. But the very independent town of Boland had remained autonomous, with its own school system. And so, when Bill West drove into the parking lot at Boland High School on Monday evening, it was another
trip backward in time. Twilight was falling, but I could see that the red-bricked, single-story exterior looked almost exactly as it did when I had graduated in 1967. Inside we walked down a polished-tile corridor. The walls, which held several cork bulletin boards filled with notices and student artwork, were painted in familiar beige. I paused outside one of the doors, on which the gold numeral four was printed high on the frosted glass. Bill turned, staring at me until I pointed toward the door and explained, “My homeroom. Senior year. Suppose it’s okay to peek inside?”

“Don’t see why not.”

The door was locked.

We continued down the hall and entered Room 8, where the draft was scheduled to be held. Stewart Rand and Nancy McLaren were both standing near the teacher’s desk. Behind them, on the large blackboard, were printed the names of every player who had participated in the Saturday-morning tryouts.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Stewart called out. “Please take seats anywhere, and we’ll be ready to commence in just a few minutes. Thank you.”

First I followed Bill as he went up aisles, shaking hands with his old friends. Although I had met them all at the tryouts, I was introduced to the other team managers and coaches once again. We found two empty seats near the front and tried to force ourselves behind two small desks.

“I guess we’ve both grown a little since the late sixties,” Bill said, chuckling as he tapped his stomach.
Stewart Rand began striking the side of a drinking glass with a ruler, and all conversation and laughter gradually subsided.

“Okay, everyone, before we begin this year’s draft, let me quickly review a few points. The fact that a player was on one particular team last year does not automatically place him on that same team this year. There is no team-player carryover. All players will be drafted by you to the team on which they will compete this season. Is that understood?”

Rand glanced around the room until several heads nodded.

“I’ve been asked why there are no girls involved in our league. They are, of course, entitled to participate as well as the boys, and of course they have in many past years. However, the girls’ softball program in this town, for all age groups, has become so popular that apparently the young women seem to have elected to compete in their own league, so this year, for the first in several, our teams will be composed totally of males.

“Now … before we begin our drafting process, I ask a small favor. Would each of the managers kindly stand, introduce himself, name his team and tell us in a few short sentences what he hopes to accomplish this year.”

Rand waited patiently until a well-muscled man wearing a New York Yankee T-shirt rose and said, “My name is Sid Marx, and I understand I shall be managing the Yankees with the help of this fine gentleman, sitting to my right, Don Pope. This will be my third year as manager, and I’m honored to have these kids under my care.
My fervent hope and prayer is that Don and I can teach them some of the many values they will need to live a life filled with success—and more important, peace and contentment.”

A tall, gray-haired man in a well-tailored business suit stood and said, “My name is Walter Hutchinson, and I’ll be handling the Cubs along with Coach Alan LaMare, who could not attend this evening because of business. This is my second year in the league, and although I look forward to improving my last-place finish of last year, I realize that there are other goals in our program than just winning baseball games. I know only too well, from my own life’s experiences, that participating in Little League can be a wonderful training ground in helping to shape the character of our young men.”

“My name is Anthony Piso,” said a short, stocky man who had been sitting in front of me. “I’m probably the only grandfather managing a Little League club in all of New Hampshire, but this year the Pirates will be handled by me and this man here, Jerry White. I’ve been managing for six years, and for the first three of those years my grandson, who now lives in Arizona, was on the team. He’s the one who got me into this. During my years as manager I’ve won two championships and look forward to building another good team, which will probably be my last, since my doctor doesn’t think that getting excited as I do, during the games, is doing very much for my cardiac condition. I hope to walk out, at the end of this season, with my head held high, but even more important, I want to make some contribution,
once more, toward helping a dozen kids take another step in the right direction on this tough road called life.”

There was a slight rippling of applause as Piso took his seat, grinning. “Just like a politician,” someone behind me said loudly, and everyone turned toward the old boy smiling. Puzzled, I glanced at Bill.

“Tony is Boland’s town treasurer, John. Has been for more than twenty years, I guess. Now it’s your turn, buddy.”

I rose, inhaled deeply and said, “My name is John Harding, and I’ll be managing the Angels, with a lot of help from my friend, Bill West. I’m extremely honored to be a part of Boland Little League again, after so many years, and I truly appreciate the opportunity you have all given me to teach and work with these fine boys. I fully realize that I have much to learn about this important position and I hope that I can count on all of you for advice when I seek it. The precious lives that have been entrusted to us deserve every opportunity to develop to their fullest potential. I’m honored to be part of this program.”

Stewart Rand, smiling slightly, nodded in my direction and said, “Gentlemen, thank you. And now … the big moment! The rules governing our player-selection process are quite simple. You four managers will each draw a number from this old baseball cap of mine. The manager drawing number one will select first, number two, second, and on through each of the four managers. Then, in order to keep things fair and to equalize the
talent among the four teams, we will select in reverse order in the second round. The manager who drafted fourth in the first round will draft first, the manager who drafted third will select second and so on. Since there are forty-eight eligible players, there will be a total of twelve rounds. As soon as you have drafted a player, Nancy will bring you an information card with his address, parents’ names and phone number. You will want to phone the young man to inform him as to which club he’ll be playing for and also give him the time and place of your first practice.

“One final point of order. Sid and Walter have sons who will be playing in our league this year. They are both excellent players, and so, in keeping with our local rules and custom, they will be considered as having been drafted by their father’s team as part of the second round of the draft. I believe this is fair to all four teams. However, if anyone objects, let’s hear from him now.”

There were no objections.

“Okay, gentlemen. There are four folded slips in this cap. Will each of you kindly come up here, remove a slip from the cap and hand it to Nancy.”

I was last in line, so Stewart reached in for me, handed my slip to Nancy and I returned to my seat. She opened all four slips, made notations on her legal pad and handed the pad to Stewart.

“Gentlemen, here is the order in which you will draft to commence things. Beginner’s luck! John Harding of the Angels will draft first; Sid Marx of the Yankees, second; Walter Hutchinson of the Cubs, third; and … 
sorry, Tony, Anthony Piso, Pirates, will select fourth. Are you prepared to draft your first Angel, John?”

“I am. The Angels take Todd Stevenson.”

Sounds of moaning and groaning filled the classroom. Sid Marx turned and grinned in my direction, saying, “Todd will pitch his game a week and win them all, so you’ve already got six victories in the sack. Win just three out of the other six and you’ve got yourself a championship.”