Friend of the devil.
Author | Barrett, Wayne M. |
Position | Sports Scene - Little league baseball - Column |
IN THAT GRAVELLY, Mafioso-style voice I'd come to know so well, my old sports editor rasped, "I'd give five years off my life to manage the [New York] Mets for just one season." He meant it, too. My reply equally was in earnest. "I'm a lot younger than you; I'd give 10 years for a shot at the [San Francisco] Giants' job." That was almost 25 years ago. Luckily--or perhaps not--the Devil did not appear that day to cut us a deal the way he did with Joe Hardy of "Damn Yankees" fame.
Ron grew up a Brooklyn Dodger fan. His first job was as a shoeshine boy outside of Ebbets Field during those glorious "Boys of Summer" years. During my job interview, we talked for hours about the national pastime's distant past. I was all of 22, but I knew my stuff. (Both my grandfathers were die-hard Brooklyn fans and I had been nurtured by an endless and fascinating series of tales about the old Giants-Dodgers rivalry.) Finally, Ron asked me who the most underrated player was on those great Dodger teams of the '50s. "Third baseman Billy Cox," I answered without hesitation. "You're hired," he shot back. The fact that we both loathed the Yankees hadn't hurt my chances, either.
Ron not only taught his charges how to be good journalists, but how to be better people. "Be humble; stay grateful" was his most valuable mantra. Despite, at times, evidence to the contrary, I haven't forgotten. Still, when I think back to those wide-eyed days, I most often recall the conversation that opened this column.
"Don't do it! I'm telling you, it's a big mistake. You're so not suited to be in charge. Those parents will run you right out of town." Okay, then, I guess I can forget using my wife as a reference to attain (finally!!) the dream of a lifetime--a chance to manage the Giants ... the Peewee Giants, that is, of our town's Youth Baseball League. It all started last spring. Two weeks before the T-Ball season was to begin, our son announced he wanted to play since all his little friends at school had signed up. I was totally against it. When I was a kid, you didn't start playing Little League until age eight. Even that was too young. Here, he was only six. Still, I called the president of the league and wangled him a spot with his pals in the Peewee American Division. (The teams are named after American League clubs. Imagine my horror when I realized I had put him on the Yankees.)
As I had feared, the season was a fiasco: kids drawing pictures in the dirt behind third base; no one...
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