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My eye is drawn to the intricate ink that snakes up his left arm in designs that I want to trace and explore and catalog. Designs that tell a story; the story of a man who clawed his way through baseball’s ranks before solidifying himself as a leader here in Seattle. The story of a man whose career is missing just one thing: a world championship.
He steps on the field like he’s mad at it, and maybe he is. He’s got a chip on his shoulder after the way our last season ended, we all do. Scowling and grunting, he adjusts the laces of his glove, and I shake my head in amusement as the pitching coach gathers the starters and relievers, and a whole slew of catchers, and starts pairing them up.
Nico Martinez, a young, bright-eyed rookie who was drafted in my first year with the Olympians, gets paired up with Max.
Here’s hoping Nico survives the day.
As hitting coach, my job is to help the guys focus on their mechanics and timing. Later on, we’ll work on plate discipline and preparation, and once the spring games start, we’ll look at footage of the pitchers they’ll face in order to know how to prepare for guys like Max. I watch Max sling an arm around the shoulders of his young catcher, whispering something to him before thumping him once on the back and then taking his place on the pitching rubber.
I watch as he steps into his windup, all lithe muscle and graceful movement, my eyes are drawn to his face rather than the ball when he hits his release point, and there’s just the slightest pinch in his brow, his scowl deepening as his throwing arm hangs at his side. I hear the sharp thwack of the ball hitting Nico’s glove, and Max waves off his return, turning and taking a deep breath, biding his time with a drink of water.
“Davis!” I turn to find Roger waiting on me, eyebrow quirked, and heat floods my cheeks. “What did I just say?”
I have a few options here: I can admit that I was wholly distracted by Max, I can guess at what Roger may have said (and chances are good it’s his usual speech), or I can play dumb.
“If you’re hitting today, grab your gear, you’re with me.” I smirk at Roger who walks away shaking his head. I never play dumb if I don’t have to. And it helps that Roger has been giving the same first day speech to position players every year since I’ve been on the coaching staff, and likely every year before that as well.
I heft a bag onto my shoulder and lead the way toward the batting cages hoping that the kids behind me – minor leaguers who just arrived in camp – have the good sense to follow. When we get to the batting cages, I drop the bag and turn to face the guys that have gathered around, some with wide eyes that wander the facility behind me, some with hardened faces – ready to get to work and not hear my speech.
Again.
Too bad for them.
“Welcome to camp!” I sound like a camp counselor, and sometimes I feel like one, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to coach; to instruct, to refine the skills that these men have, and hopefully help them develop into the big leaguers that we as a staff believe that they can be. “Today, I just want to seeyou swing, I want to see what you can do at the plate; we’ll get to everything else later, your job for the next few weeks is to keep an open mind. Listen to the coaching staff, observe other players, and be willing to learn. Always be willing to learn.”
I’ve seen too many ball players come into camp acting like they know everything there is to know about the game, acting like they could out-hit Babe Ruth or Hank Aaron, only to get cut from the active roster because they weren’t willing to listen to anyone around them, and then I felt like a failure as their coach. I felt like a failure until I was reminded that I’m only responsible for what they do at the plate and not the egos that they bring into the batter’s box with them.
And boy, do they bring some egos with them.
I’ve seen players come and go over the last seven years, young hot shots who get invited to camp only to spend the season in minors because they weren’t willing to learn.
This morning is all about soft tosses from behind a net. I watch how the young kids and veteran players alike approach the plate, swing their bat, and with a few I pick up on issues right away. The guys who’ve been around for a while make their own adjustments as they cycle through pitches; I make note of the ones who need help squaring up at the plate or adjusting their hands, but I’ll save those things for later. Camp is just as much for team building as it is honing skills, and as the guys gather around the backstop on our first day out of the batting cages, laughing and catching up after a long off season, it’s doing us all an awful lot of good.
“Hey coach,” Luca Phillips sidles up next to me behind the backstop, offering me a charming smile as he leans his forearms against the net. “Have a good off season?”
“I did, thanks. How about you? Get any work in?” It’s not unusual for guys to work with private coaches during the offseason and if anyone on this team is going to be seeking extra coaching, it’s Luca Phillips, reigning league batting champion.
“I did,” he grins, throwing me a wink. “Can’t wait to show you what I’ve worked on.”
“Go on, then.”
Luca steps into the batter's box with a heavier bat than his usual, taking a few easy practice swings before taking actual cuts at the balls lobbed his way. He smacks a few line drives that would be easy outs for our infielders to make, and then, after switching to his usual bat, he airmails the baseballs into the outfield grass, putting a few over the wall.
The young players all gather around, watching as Luca puts on a masterclass at the plate, oohing and ahhing over his form and mechanics, over the exit velocity that is evident even without fancy cameras and equipment here at the training facility. Of all my players, Luca Phillips is the one I was most worried about when I first started with the team; Luca talks a big game and deserves every award on his shelves, and if anyone would have a reason to dismiss their brand new hitting coach, it would be Luca, but to my surprise, he was willing to listen to me, and somehow we’ve become friends over the years.
“Alright Luca,” I admonish with a laugh, “you have to let the other kids have a turn now.”
Luca removes his batting helmet and stuffs his gloves into his back pocket, wincing as he steps up next to me at the backstop.
“Looks like whatever you did over the break worked,” I clap him on the back. “How’d it feel?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be, Coach.” For the briefest moment, he drops his usual me-against-the-world smirk, but it comes back when the kid in the batter's box whiffs it,sending the ball straight up into the net and back down onto his head. “And that’s why we wear helmets.”
After lunch, I gather the hitters to talk mechanics.
I went to college on a softball scholarship, and I majored in marine biology. My plan was to teach science someday. Maybe in my hometown, maybe not, I didn’t think that far ahead, but I knew I wanted to teach. And I did, for a while. But then I called Roger and had the opportunity to coach under him at the college level, and it was a dream come true. I thought that was it for me. I’d reached the peak, as close as I could to the big leagues.
I sent resumes to all the big league clubs. Hoping that it would get in front of the right person.
