Accidental Coach

Are you a referee, line judge or umpire? Have you seen the man whose photo accompanies this byline? If so, I probably owe you an apology.

After thirty-five years of torturing officials I am considering retirement from coaching youth sports. Umpires and referees from here to the shores of Long Island will mark their calendars and dance in the streets when informed of this historic surrender. Who can blame them?

Terrorizing game officials since the age of sixteen, coaching was never on my radar screen early on, in fact, as a child I was a coach's nightmare. On every team there is a kid who thinks he or she knows more than the adult who is running the show, a pint-sized fledgling manager who believes that the formula for a winning season resides alone, under his or her 6 ¼ sized baseball cap. A young beardless Jon was that kid.

In my first four years of youth baseball I played for four different coaches. Labeled a "distraction" one coach cleverly announced that I was not to ask him any questions during the game, answering any attempted query with the phrase "Jon, that sounds like a question." Other coach's would either ignore my managerial tips or simply sprint in a different direction if I drew too near. My wonderfully patient Dad would tell me "When you get to be the coach, you can make the decisions", hoping to soften my image and detour my path as a journeyman Little Leaguer. By age fifteen I was out of the local youth baseball system and had moved on to irritating my high school coach.

Following my sophomore year, I was approached by a neighbor who had been coerced into coaching his son's fifteen year old Babe Ruth League team for the summer. He needed a first base coach and someone to pitch batting practice and was unable to pressure any of the team parents into lending a hand. My neighbor even offered to pay me ten dollars per game for my services. Bored, broke and dateless, I agreed to come aboard for a negotiated rate of twelve-fifty per game if we lost and fifteen bucks if we won. The big leaguers were starting to pull in some nice cash during the seventies due to the advent of free-agency, why not me?

The first two weeks went swimmingly. The team was winning and I had a little jingle in my pocket. On the way to a Saturday practice I drove by the coach's house to pick up my weekly stipend and noticed that my boss was loading furniture into a truck. Following a short investigation I discovered that my benevolent neighbor had been promoted to a new position within his company and would be moving to New Jersey in a matter of days. It became clear to me as we spoke that I would now become the head coach of this team and my income would now come in the form of voluntary community service and good will.

Perhaps it was a plot devised by coach's I had wronged in the past sensing a shot at retribution or merely the apathy of parents unwilling to enlist their spare time for the sake of the team, but I was anointed head coach in an eye flash. No background check like today, oh no, just a scorebook and keys to the field hastily dropped on my porch one summer evening.

Admittedly, the prospect of bossing around kids just one year younger than me was an appealing possibility, however, I was reticent, an "accidental coach" if you will. The following day I headed to the ball field and have been there ever since.

Over the next thirty-four years I've coached thirty-one baseball teams, twenty-seven basketball teams, a girls softball team and a faculty basketball team comprised of Rabbi's at a private school. (Note: the Ramblin' Rabbi's finished the season 4-12-1 with one tied Friday afternoon game which ran long and was suspended due to the Sabbath).

I've been thrown out of games by umpires, referees, and even a scorekeeper here in Roanoke. Some of my players are doctors, some have been to prison, and others are in their final resting place.

Pablo Picasso once said "The accidental reveals man," if that is indeed the case I've been fortunate to stumble onto something I love.