John Brown was my baseball coach.
Mr. Brown — I never really thought of him by his first name — died Dec. 11, 2006, at the age of 80. I learned about his death at Christmas while visiting my dad, who had clipped the obituary from the newspaper.
I was 12 when I first met Mr. Brown. I wasn’t a very good baseball player then. I was still a little “husky” and a bit slow. In my previous three Little League seasons, I was relegated to the “minor league” because I wasn’t good enough to be drafted to a “major league” team. But when I turned 12, the rules said, I had to play in the majors.
On an early spring evening, Mr. Brown called my dad to let him know that I would be playing on his team, and then he asked to talk to me. I don’t remember his exact words, but he made sure to tell me that he wanted me on his team and that he thought he was going to have a pretty good team that year.
In that very short conversation, Mr. Brown began our relationship by giving me confidence and by treating me as an adult. That was one of the special things about Mr. Brown. He didn’t treat me, or anyone else on the team, as an adolescent. He treated us as adults at a time when we needed that. I played for him for four baseball seasons, and he began each season with a phone call just like the first. He let me know he was looking forward to having me.
Thanks to Mr. Brown, I gradually became a much better baseball player. He constantly reminded us that the only way we would improve was to practice on our own. So, when it was warm outside I was playing catch with someone, throwing a rubber ball against a wall somewhere or heaving a baseball at a “Pitchback” in my back yard. Sometimes I’d just head to the garage and practice swinging a bat for a while.
I know that Mr. Brown always rooted for me to get better, and he was pleased when I did. I’m not going to try to convince anyone that I was a great player, but when I was 14 I finally blossomed. I hit .400 that summer, finally got some “legs” and played a decent centerfield.
I didn’t hit for power, but on one at bat I crushed a pitch and sent it high and deep to right field. I stood at the plate for a moment just watching the ball, hoping it would sail over the fence. I remember hearing Mr. Brown in the dugout saying, “Go on, get out of here!” He wanted that home run as much as I did.
Suddenly he cried “Run, Mark, run!” The ball landed at the base of the fence, and I had to scoot to get a triple.
We had some great teams. When I was 15, my last year in Little League, the first six batters in our line-up made the all-star team. I was the seventh batter. I thought I had a good chance of making it. Mr. Brown called to tell me I hadn’t made it. He wanted me to make the all-stars, he said, but the other coaches just wouldn’t agree to take seven players from the same team. He was as disappointed as I was.
I loved Mr. Brown as a coach so much that he inspired me to do a fair amount of coaching myself. Starting in college, I helped organize intramural football and basketball teams — my nickname was “Coach.” After I got out of school, I helped coach a youth baseball team for a couple of years until work got too hectic. I coached my son’s baseball team one year, and helped coach some of his other teams and some of my daughter’s softball teams. Inside, I always hoped I might have the same impact on a young ballplayer as Mr. Brown had on me.
Even now, I coach my church softball team. And I still love to play, in part because of Mr. Brown.
Mr. Brown taught me about baseball and a few things about life. He was a great coach. He made me better.