The Coyote Roadshow is coming to your baseball town!

Baseball practice started at 4:10 PM, sharp. If a player was late he had to run a lap around the entire field for every minute he was late. And adding insult and humiliation to the punishment, the other players were allowed and even encouraged to insult the late player while he did his run.

      The players all agreed it was a good policy. No player had ever been late.

      Bill and Mikie sat on a lower bench in the stands while the other players milled around on the infield, waiting for Coach to arrive and for practice to start.

      The players saw Coach leave the locker room in the distance and head to the field—but it was just 3:30. Coach never showed early. When Coach arrived it was always time to play baseball. 

      But not today, which made the day feel even more special to the boys. Coach just walked across the field ignoring his players, except for Bill. He waved a finger and Bill followed him into the dugout.

      When he and Coach were alone, Coach asked Bill to help out with his Talk, the part about the baseball, “Bill, you’re good with numbers. I want you to tell the players about all the numbers that make up a baseball.”

      “A baseball?” Bill didn’t understand.

      “Yes, Pitch,” Coach said and picked up a ball. He tossed it to Bill and Bill felt and looked at the ball, then saw the ball in a brand new way—the way of his expertise: numbers!

      “Well, of course Coach,” Bill agreed to the assignment then paused. He really wasn’t sure what Coach wanted. “So, what numbers do you want me to talk about?”

      “Hell, I don’t know! I just know how to throw the damn thing!”

      Bill laughed so hard he made Coach laugh. Coach spoke the Truth with such humor.

      “And that’s why I’m talking to a dumb pitcher, I’m so desperate.”

      “Okay Coach, I’m in 100%. Whatever you need, I’m your man.”

      “I thought so.”
      “So… what numbers?”

      Coach did his ‘coach thing’ and said nothing. Rather he spoke with his eyes: waiting, Bill, I’m waiting for… you to go away.

      Bill responded, now honored to be helping his Coach, “I know, you want me to come up with the numbers because it’s the one thing this dumb baseballer is smart about. And I’m so smart I will figure out every number that you will need, and deliver.”

      “Yup, you will,” Coach said plainly and turned away.

      "About time to scare the rookies,” Mikie shouted, walking over to Bill as Bill exited the dugout, “…into something religious.”

      The boys were standing around by homeplate, each player content to look at his shoes and wish that one day he might touch this sacred base in a game. Step on it and earn a run for the Team.

      Mikie came over and told everyone to sit down on the infield grass. Mikie was the captain of the Coyotes and he got the respect he deserved. Everyone sat as Coach came out of the dugout and stood alongside Mikie. Coach loved to see a student taking charge.

      "Today we're going to hear about the Church of Baseball."

      "Hallelujah, brother!” Bill shouted for fun.

      "Thank you for that, brother Bill.”

      Mikie began his speech with sincerity, "The Church of Baseball is not exclusive. So you are allowed to go to other churches too."

      The players all laughed.

      "A Church is any place that is sacred. A park, your backyard, the beach or mountains. A place that is special to you.

      “And the Church of Baseball is special. Why? you ask. 

      “Well, here's the man with the answers. The good Reverend,” Mikie put his hand on his Coach’s back, “The holy preacher of baseball, the pastor and priest who we lovingly call, ‘Coach’.”

      Coach chuckled at the complement and the players on the grass were all getting excited.

      He took a baseball out of his pocket. It was an old practice ball that showed many scars. “This ball is much older than most all professional balls. Most professional baseballs that aren’t hit for homeruns, live for an average of about three pitches—just three pitches.”

      Bill nodded in agreement. And when the players saw Bill agreeing, they agreed too.

      “The ball is the heart, the alter, the golden orb, the very source of our game. A bat can be a stick and you don’t need a glove to catch a ball.”

      “Yes I do!” DJ challenged.

      “Well,” Coach agreed, “There’s always an exception to every rule.”

      DJ smiled. He liked being the exception.

      “So, the ball is, well, just a ball but it is made up of many different parts. The core is a small rubber ball, a bit smaller than a golfball. It has a tiny circular chuck of cork at its center. That helps the ball pop off the bat. It’s called the ‘pill’. Yarn is wrapped around the pill. Four times with different thicknesses of yarn. 

      “Now, don’t think about all that yarn, think about all the air resting around all that yarn. That’s where the ball’s compression happens. The ball is compressed by the air being forced out from around the yarn momentarily.”

      Bill looked over at Coach and then commented, trying to make it easier for his teammates to understand, “Technically, the ‘kinetic energy’ of the ball when it’s moving, hits the bat and changes into ‘elastic potential energy’ when it is hit by your bat.” Bill then smiled with satisfaction.

      The boys were all washed. ”Hey, we’re just baseball players!” Other Matt shouted from under his cap. 

      Bill laughed, “Yeah I know but I wanted to make sure you weren’t going to dismiss science. That’s the physics of the action. But for baseballers, let me just say it like this: think like a spring. The spring is pushed in and then pops back out. That’s compression. And the ball’s little rubber ball, cork, and yarn, and the air around the yarn, all help make that happen. Simply, the more compression and the further the ball will travel.”

      Coach nodded and Bill’s words became, ‘The Word’.

      Then Bill added, “And the ball only makes contact with the bat for point zero zero one seconds—one, one-thousand of a second.“

      “So, not so much time,” Coach then added. Bill had been right on course.

      As teachers do, Coach paused the Talk, took a sip from his water bottle and spoke with Bill briefly, “Good job,” he whispered while the players lying on the grass pondered the ball of baseball.

      “The outside wrapping is leather. That’s a cow’s skin.”

      Wyatt perked up. He had never thought about where leather comes from.

      “The leather is hand-stitched. No machine can make a baseball. It still takes a human’s skill and ability. Bill will tell you, every seam is adjusted by hand to make the threads into a perfect ‘V’ shape. Critical for consistency of pitches. Each ball must be identical so the pitcher can always do the same thing and get the same results.”

      Coach had brought a few balls in his pockets for this moment. He pulled them out and tossed them around, “Check it out.”

      Bill was surprised with how interested all the players were. They had never really looked at a baseball. He smiled like a knowing father. He was the pitcher and he knew that everything Coach was saying was true.

      “Hockey players use a ‘stick’ to hit a ‘puck’!”

      “Not even a bat, just a stick!”

      “What’s a ‘puck’ anyways?”

      “A duck that chases a truck?”

      “In the muck?”

      “Badminton is played with a ‘birdie’.”

      “Birdie?”

      “What’s a birdie?”

      “Isn’t that the girl you’re going out with, Rodney?”

      Rodney replied, “And you’re going out with Miss Puck? Isn’t that right?“

      “Yeah, she’s a babe, eh!”

      The players all agreed: no football, soccer ball or even a puck or birdie needed to be made by hand. Only a baseball.

      “So I got Bill up here to talk numbers. The numbers of baseball. I think you will find, since we are in the Church of Baseball, that these numbers are very magical. You’ll find them in all religions and of course everything that we call ‘science’.”

      The Team brighten up. This was something they knew nothing about. Except for Bill’s endless chatting about numbers which they had all tuned-out long ago. 

      Bill still wasn’t sure where Coach wanted him to go so he just started talking numbers, hoping in the end it all would make sense, which it did.

      Bill picked up a ball, rubbed it and then tossed it in the air. When he caught the ball, he began, thinking “relax and execute”.

      “How many stitches does the ball have?” Bill asked knowing his fellow player’s response, which was: “I never even thought about that!” and then many of them started counting. Some realized they had never even looked at a baseball this close. Soon, the number 108 was whispered.

      Bill knew there were 108 stitches but still didn’t know where he was going. So he did what always had worked best for him, kept talking.

      “108, that’s right. But 108 doesn’t mean anything magical. All these numbers I’m going to talk about don’t have any meaning. Until you hear them all and then look at the big picture. As Coach always says, there is a deeper meaning to everything in baseball. And as in baseball, so it is in life.”

      The players acknowledged with their heads and bodies. That part they understood.

      “So think of what all these numbers added together might mean. Nothing obvious but underneath, when you see them all together, well, you might just have a moment of baseball-enlightenment. So here we go.”

      The players were ready. They all had their game-faces on.

      Bill was right on track so he just kept talking, “108 is the product of 12 times 9. Easy. Now think: nine players on each team, nine innings in a baseball game, each inning is three outs, so in a full inning that’s six outs. Six times nine innings is 54 outs in a game, which is exactly half of 108.

      “The structure of the game is a triangle, a Trinity, with three connecting parts: three strikes, three outs, and nine innings which is three times three. A game has three distinctive parts, the beginning, middle, and end, each three innings long. To master the game of baseball, as all of you know, a player must first master the three pillars.”

      The boys on the grass automatically recited the pillars in their heads.

      Coach did too. He was impressed and surprised with Bill’s impromptu presentation. Coach was learning too! He thought, “Remember who is the student and who is the teacher.”

      The numbers made sense to Coach. Their mathematical synchronicity was amazing, magical really. Coach always thought he was a Master at baseball but with Bill’s teaching, he understood the ‘numbers of baseball’ in a whole new way. He started a chuckle then thought of some numbers he could contribute to Bill’s Talk.

      “Nine innings, three outs per inning, and nine players that divide into three units of three: three outfielders, three defensive infielders, the Shortstop, 3rd baseman and 2nd baseman. And three,” Coach was trying to figure out the numbers as he spoke. The information he was sharing was new to him too! “And three infielders that are involved in every play: the pitcher, catcher, and 1st baseman.”

      Bill was as impressed with Coach as Coach was with himself.

      The players all shifted around on the grass and grouped together in units of three, the outfielders together and the infielders trying to get together. Catcher Mikie stood up and walked over to group with 1st baseman Kurt. Bill joined them with an excited smile. “Coach knows numbers!” he thought.

      Bill now knew where he was going—he had been going there all the time, “Now, the number twelve. Twelve is a magical number. But science never says the word ‘magical’. Instead scientists call the number twelve a sublime number or a superior composite number, but I don’t know what those terms really mean.

      “What I do know is that twelve is the product of three times four. Three outs and four bases. Twelve is also divisible by: 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, and 9."

      “It does seem magical,” agreed Kurt.

      “You’re probably right. Twelve is the most popular religious number.” 

      The boys all understood that, and they responded.

      “Twelve disciples!”

      “Twelve astrological signs!”

      “Twelve months in a year!”

      Then Bill added a very non-religious value of twelve, “What about the invention of time?”

      “Oh, yeah!” a few players shouted.

      “Twelve hours. 60 minutes, divisible by twelve. And 12 and 1 through 60 are the only numbers that always appear on a clock or watch.

      “240 feet from home to home, 24 hours in a day.”

      Kurt added confidently, “60 feet to 1st base, 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour.”  Then Kurt discovered more connecting numbers, “3 times 60 is 180, the distance from home to 3rd base. And multiplied by two is 360.” He was sure those numbers meant something important.

      “360 days in a year?” DJ said knowing there were really 365.

      “You’re exactly correct, DJ.”

      DJ smiled with the compliment but still wasn’t sure.

      “Time is not an exact science, so rounding off is okay. Calculus teachers round off all the time. They call it ‘limits’.”

      “I like rounding off,” DJ agreed. He was proud of his answer and couldn’t wait until he told his parents that he had learned calculus at baseball practice.

      “360 degrees in a circle. Astronomers know that one earth-day equals one degree of movement around the sun. One year, 360 degrees, 360 days.”

      “That’s exactly correct!” DJ shouted proudly.

      “So what does it all really mean?” Bill asked, now thinking like Dr. Tom and Dr. James. “I don’t know. That’s for each of you to figure out on your own. What do these numbers mean to you personally, and as a baseballer?”

      Coach stepped up, “So think about all those numbers while you endure further enlightenment.

      “Baseball is played outside in nature, in a Park. Not on a field, court, course, stadium, or rink. Baseball is played outside on a natural dirt and grass field in the spring and summer. Always in nice weather. If it rains, us baseballers just go home. 

      “Nature, sun, wind, and rain are all in play during a game.

      “Each Park has a different field layout. No two baseball parks look the same. In the olden days, the outfield had no end. There was no fence, and fans who couldn’t afford a ticket to sit in the stands would simply stand behind the outfielders and watch the game for free.

      “Imagine going to a baseball game and watching Willy McCovey, Mickey Mantle or Willy Mays catch ‘outs’. And you’d be standing right behind him as each ball ended its life in Willy’s glove. 

      “‘Say hey Willie!, good catch’, you’d speak and Mr. Mays would look over his shoulder directly into your eyes, smile his ‘Willy smile’ and respond as a friend, ‘Say hey!’ Then he’d nod his head in approval.

      “Imagine seeing Hank Aaron hit number 715 or Barry Bonds hit 762. And be standing in the outfield right next to them! I’m in heaven.”

      Coach took a long breath. His tribe tried their best to imagine, even just a little, the old world of their sacred sport. 

      A field with no fence? Fans on the field? No electronics or media broadcast. Just local radio announcers, the most die-hard of baseball fans, who broadcasted their accounts through the waves of energy sent out by the local radio station to the wanting public. Nothin’ like spending an afternoon listening to a ballgame on the ol’ transistor radio. It always sounded marvelous. 

      “But when baseball started to become a business and not just a friendly game, its world tightened sharply. Money became the main motivator and managers learned how to buy baseball players, human beings, and make money off their talents and skills.

      “Fences ended the free outfield and since the fence was built around existing buildings and other structures, the outfield of each baseball park took on a unique shape. There was no issue with the outfields having different homerun distances. In fact, the players thought it was more fun. Each park held a different challenge while taking on its own distinctive look.” 

      Coach took a pause and a sip of water, the first three innings of his lesson done.

Travis asked the first question. He was serious but his question was not, “Coach, was that when you were just a player?”

      Everyone cracked and Coach laughed the loudest, “That’s a good one. Congratulations.”

Travis smiled his evil grin at the other players.

      “Now give me three laps for your wisdom.”

      Everyone really laughed then and when Travis got up to do his duty, Coach told him to please sit back down. Nobody was running laps today.

      When the young players settled down feeling a little guilty for their rambunctiousness, Coach responded to Travis’ clever comment.

      “No, not a player. I was an Assistant Coach by then,” Coach said matter of factly. “My playing days were long over.” 

      His tribe all laughed. Their Coach could not be beat. They laid back on the cool grass in wonder: Coach had once been a real normal person, a baseball player, a catcher, and the leader of his team.

Coach loved his players as most all teachers love their own students. He admired their faith in him. He just spoke it and they did it. All actions and no questions or complaints. 

      Coach loved his metaphor of his ‘Church of Baseball’. It wasn't an attempt to challenge or subvert any formal religion. It was for his players to understand their lives from a different point of view. “Like in Church we do on the baseball field. Like in baseball so we do on the field of our lives.”

      “The ‘Word’,” Wyatt whispered with a nod of agreement from all the others.

      The players were now fully engaged in their Church. Coach only wished he had a baseball hymnal for them to sing.       

      Coach continued with his comparisons, “The field has two parts, inbounds and out of bounds. Only a ball inbounds is in play. And the coaches are not allowed to ever go onto the field unless an umpire gives them permission first. 

      “Baseball has no time limits. Human time does not exist in a baseball park. Baseball time comes in strikes, outs, and innings. The game plays for nine innings, seven in high school ball, no matter how much time it takes.” 

      “No time? huh,” Rodney said, then made up a pun, “Then I don’t have time to play baseball?”

      “You have all the time in the world.”

      “But I don’t have time for the world and baseball.”

      “Now the umpires can call a game at any time after the minimum amount of innings has been played and they generally do, but there were some very long games. 

      “Ya know, we’ve had a few games that went into extra innings, I think four innings was the longest.”

      “Yeah, that’s right Coach. Two years ago in that game against Paradise High,” Matt remembered.

      “The longest professional game lasted 35 innings, and the longest Major League game lasted 23 innings over two days.”

      “That’s a lot of standing around next to 2nd base,” DJ lamented.

      “You’re correct DJ. But think of it this way: during each inning you played you’d be thinkin’ it would be your last, then the next inning you’d think the same, and the same the following inning. And then the next day when the game continued, you wouldn’t know what you’re doing.”

      “I actually might do well then. I’m very experienced at not knowing what I’m doing.”

      The players laughed loud. And maybe a bit too loud for DJ’s ego.

      Coach laid out the data. And step by step the player’s learned why baseball wasn’t just America’s national past-time but a tonic for all the world’s population. Watching or playing a baseball game was life in the ‘happening now’ category.

      “In baseball, the objective is to score runs, not points or goals. In baseball, a player just wants to ‘go home’.

      “There are no penalties, flags, or whistles to stop the game. In baseball a player just makes an error.” 

      “Oops!’” Other Matt shouted with delight.

      More laughter, especially from DJ and Kurt.

      “Baseball consists of only three rituals. Three, which is one of Coach Bill’s magic numbers. Around here we call them the Pillars of Baseball because they are the most important rituals that determine the outcome of a game. 

      “There is no player contact in baseball. No violence. Baseball is a game of skill, not strength or aggressive behavior. So even wimpy players, like DJ and, what’s that other wimpy player’s name, oh yeah, Other Matt, no… Kurt?”

      The players laughed, especially DJ and Other Matt. It was always an honor to receive the Coach’s attention, however he gave it to you. And any attention Coach paid to a player was of great value.

      “The official Book of Rules for Baseball is small and brief, and in case anything got missed, rule number 8.02 says that the game umpire may rule as he sees appropriate in any situation on which there is not a clear ruling.

      “The umpire is Lord Master of the baseball park. It is his way or the ejection highway. When you step onto his playing field, you become his follower because you are now in his Church of Baseball. 

      “The game begins when the umpire says, ‘Play ball!’ Not when a clock or the media says it’s the correct starting time.

      “It’s the only sport where the defensive team begins each play: the pitcher throws the ball. And only defensive players are allowed to touch the ball. If anyone else does then the batter is automatically out.

      The kids thought about other sports. Basketball? An offensive player throws the ball into the court. In football the ball is hiked by the Center. In soccer an offensive player throws the ball onto the playing field.

      Then Coach announced with severance, “To the Temple boys.”

      The players stood up, stretched, and walked from their sunny spots to the dugout. Each took his own seat and relaxed. They were at home.

      The dugout was a private place for team members to talk and to share important issues. In the Church of Baseball, the dugout was the confessional. If a player had a serious issue he needed to discuss with the team or Coach privately, it happened in the dugout. 

      In the dugout everyone had his spot, his seat, his happy place. When a player spoke, it was with only one of two attitudes: silly and playful or sacred and serious.

      Coach now spoke again with reverence, “Being a great player means being a great leader. Be a leader, not one of the sheep.

      “Always act with integrity and be in command of every moment. Act like a leader even if you are batting last. It’s all about your attitude, not your ability. “With your first step onto the sacred field your feet will feel the field’s dirt, its essence. And you’ll feel yourself shape-shifting into a baseballer, a player who hits homeruns and makes sacrifice outs.”

      One of the reasons Bill loved being a pitcher was getting to stand on the mound. It was exactly in the center of the infield and ten inches higher than home plate, the batter, and all the other disciples on the field.

      In a world where the man in the highest chair was leader, Bill stood over all the players on the field. ‘The man on high will always deliver the goods’. 

      “The catcher is the captain of the team. From his position behind homeplate, he can see the entire field very well and see clearly where the ball is going and where it needs to go next. He also sees who needs to make the play and which players need to assist,” Coach nodded to Mikie.

      “As you know, the catcher does a lot of yelling during a play. And every player on his team is always listening and quickly acting in response. The catcher is the boss during each play on the sacred playing field. Yes Mikie?

      “Each player plays the entire game, offense and defense. Unless he’s substituted out. In football each player has a specific role and only participates for a few plays during the whole game. In baseball, every player gets the chance to hit a homerun.

      “In baseball we have a manager and coaches.” 

      Wyatt knew where Coach was going, “And the coaches must wear a uniform with his number on it,” said Wyatt, proud to contribute.

      “That’s correct Wyatt. And I look good in mine, don’t I?” Coach complimented himself rhetorically. 

      “The first base and third base coaches work on the field so they must wear a uniform, and the Manager will visit his pitchers on the mound many times so he’s gotta have the proper duds too.”

      “What about hats?” Bill asked.

      “Yes! Football players have to wear a helmet,” Travis realized.

      “So do hockey players,” Wyatt added.

      “And bicycle racers do to!” Rodney joined in.

      ”But baseballers only need a ‘cap’.”

      “Of course,” Bill pointed out, “You can’t ‘doff’ a helmet.”

      For the last inning of his Talk, Coach wanted his boys out in the sunshine, “Back out on the field, men. Go out and find your special spot on the grass.”

      They did and some of the players started rolling and playing around with each other and Coach just let them.

      Coach gazed over at Bill and then Mikie. The next part of his Talk was going to be sad. Not sad for the players right now, but tonight and forever, it will haunt each of them in a unique way.

      “Listen up,” Coach announced and the field quickly fell silent. “What I say next will be painful. Not right now, but, wait, you’ll see.”

      The boys suddenly felt like they were going to get an ejection from the doctor, a big shot with a fat needle. And that’s exactly what happened.

      Coach sat down in the shade on the cool grass, now at an equal level with all of his players. “Boys, there’s a very sad part about playing baseball: not playing. Not playing baseball ever again.”

      The boys were stumped. They had a game later that week.

      Coach clarified, “When you finish playing High School Ball here, you will never play baseball again. Never. Not fun baseball, not Church of Baseball baseball.”

      The players started to catch-on to Coach’s message and became silent and  concerned in thought.

      “If you play College Ball you’ll quickly learn that it’s all about turning baseballers into money-making machines. And no Church is involved. Softball Leagues are certainly fun but the games aren’t a real competition, and the quality of play is pretty low.

      “Right now you are real baseballers, as authentic as it gets—nothing better.”

      The boys saw hope through their feelings of confusion.

      “Play this season as though it was your last… because it is.

      “Experience it all, the good and the bad, the winning and the losing. It’s all baseball. And you will remember these games for the rest of your life.”

      Coach then paused. He was ‘taking in’ the moment. Savoring it as a message to him and his flock: enjoy being a baseballer right now, and then forever in your memories.

      The young baseballers understood, even the ones with reptilian brains. No one spoke because there was nothing to say. Coach was the final Word.

      He looked each of his players in the eyes and they were a Team.

      “That’s it for today!” Coach said done and so they were.

      The boys all left the practice field with enlightened sad faces and they didn’t understand why. The information was a mosh of exciting, amazing facts, but the baseballer’s mind is a slow learner.

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The Code had visited the Coyote’s practice and learned much about human beings. Mostly that playing a game was a tremendously important event. Humans seemed to put more effort into game-playing and game-watching than most serious activities. She also heard the boys’ concerns about their lives and the future, and took detailed notes. 

      The Code was a disciple of the Church of Baseball too. She naturally knew what Coach took years to realize and take into his faith: baseball and religion wanted the same results, winning, but they followed different paths to ‘Being a Winner’.

      The Code knows she always tells the Truth when she speaks. Even when, and especially when, she’s not sure what her own words mean.

      Being together as a team, to train and strive towards a goal. To fail and then get up and try again. And fail again. To give up, then the very next day, get up at sunrise just to practice your ‘catching the ball’ skills. 

      And for as many times as it takes to skillfully execute your tasks and reach your goal. Giving up would never be an option. ‘Trying’ was not an option either. Trying was giving yourself permission to fail. And so you do because you decided in advance that failure was an option and just as good a choice as doing the difficult thing.

      She knew the Pillars of Coyote Baseball were the Truth, and in each player’s lives too. She also knew, with as much sadness and disappointment as her big heart could bare, that a human’s path was steep and rocky. That it took courage to just take the next breath, drink fresh water, and confirm one’s own humanity by standing back up, start walking again, and carry on boldly with his or her life.

      The Code gave a silent blessing for Coach and his holy Church.

 

 

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