Father’s Day Error
At 11:49 am I was giving Jack batting practice at the Solomon Field where he came of age as a little leaguer but by 1:15, about an hour into practice with the summer ball team, I was laying on my back under a maple tree, nauseous, seeing stars, and holding an ice bag on my shoulder.
I quickly became a pathetic man’s Q&A: What’s wrong with Coach Cote? Is your Dad okay? Why is he on all fours crying?
No, son, Coach Cote is not okay.
He’s a dumb ass.
I’m a dumb ass.
Sorry kids, there’s really no other way to say it. I got hurt trying to outrun a dozen 10-year-olds. The problem is no one touched me, the wind didn’t suddenly blow me over and I didn’t fall over the catcher’s gear. I would love to tell you that a miraculous gust of wind blew down an oak tree that bizzarely landed 5-feet from home plate, narrowly missing my head, or that little Johnny hurled a bat at my head during BP. I would love to tell you that I was nauseous from my own uncooked flapjacks or dizzy like that time Kaitlyn threw one squarely at my groin during pepper.
I can’t tell you that. The truth is, my 1st degree shoulder separation that has me on the shelf for the first couple weeks of our district baseball tournament is the fate of trying to be 10 and realizing I’m becoming my dad.
When papa was a coach back in the late ’70s he used my children’s books as bases when his Hartford Hawks college teams came over our house for BBQs. He’d beat them in wiffle ball, stomping on Dr. Seuss’s head with vigor as he scored another run. He cared about the kids he coached – he taught them the right way to play – but when the time came to compete with them, he played to win.
On this Father’s Day, practice was almost over and I decided to build camraderie with the boys by challenging them to a run around the field. Outside of Jack, none of them had played for me until this season so I knew I had to gain their trust through teaching, energy and sometimes, for better or worse, being like them.
“No one,” I said, staring at each of them for a second, then repeating those words: “No one better lose to me.” You could quickly see Drew’s smile, then Max’s competitiveness. Coach was challenging them to a race. This was becoming a team and I knew that moments like this would go a long way to making it a great summer. No, it wasn’t Coach Boone’s run through Gettysburg but it was my own version of getting the kids to come together.
I may be on the verge of 42 but I always consider these practices as a chance for me to exercise too so I took off like Usain Bolt toward our version of the Pesky Pole and by the time we reached the center field warning track, even with half the kids cheating, I had established such a big lead I started running backwards, encouraging the kids to keep it up, seeing the intensity in them, the sweat. By the time we turned down the left field line toward home I was Secretariat — winning going away. For a few moments I was locked into winning, probably separating myself from the real reason I was there that day, to be a coach.
I was my dad circling those children’s books.
Only Max could catch me….but after tapping third base it was evident I was going to get to home first so I began to slow slightly but somehow downshifted too quickly. Most of my fellow coaches have told me that this is exactly the point at which I made an error, others have said I blew it when I started running to begin with.
I lost balance and essentially dove shoulder first into the ground about 5 yards from home plate. I rolled over and the other coaches started laughing, thinking I was just letting the kids win.
Right away I knew something was wrong – the pain felt like that time I held onto the rim too long during a basketball trampoline jamboree and slammed my right wrist onto the Parquet floor. The pain was a 10 out of 10.
Sadly, these sorts of things happen a lot to me – walking into lamp posts, bumping my head on counters, ramming my toe into the coffee table. This injury is uniquely pathetic because there were no physical barriers 20 feet from me.
I was injured by air.
We walked into the kitchen at 2:15pm after practice and my dad asked Bridget for a sheet he could tear apart to make a sling. She gave him Sophie’s old pink fitted sheet.
“You’ve done a lot of dumb things Bry, but this takes the prize,” she said, with that look only my wife can give, the one that says, “I love you but are you serious – why didn’t you put your hands out to brace your fall like a normal person?”
I’d like to tell you I have answer Bridget, but I do not. No, I chose to go shoulder first. Interesting decision.
It’s as though in that moment I lost all sense of body control, mind control and perspective.