Twelfth Angel (7 page)

“Sid … Sid … if only it were that easy,” Bill said with a sigh.

“I know. Only kidding, John.”

The entire draft took almost two hours. Very often coaches and managers checked and rechecked their notes, and on several occasions they went out into the hallway to confer in private. It was obvious, from the beginning, that these men were really familiar with the available talent. Fortunately I had Bill West and I leaned on his judgment heavily as we went through round after round of selections.

Finally we were in the last round of the draft and there were only four candidates who had not been chosen. Heavy lines had been drawn through all other names on the blackboard as well as on every manager’s and coach’s list of players. Bill leaned toward me, reached out toward my list and pointed to one of the names through which there was still no line drawn, Timothy Noble. I glanced over at him. He was shaking his head from side to side. The eleven players we had selected so far seemed like a well-balanced group. I was
pleased with our team, at least on paper. Now, just one more selection.

It didn’t take long. Piso, Hutchinson and Marx all had their pick ahead of us, and after they had made their choices, there was only one name remaining on the blackboard without a white chalk line running through it.

Timothy Noble became my last … my twelfth Angel.

VII
 

F
or the next three weeks each of the four teams in our league practiced two afternoons a week, usually from four
P.M
. to six
P.M
. One weekly practice session for each team, according to the schedule Nancy had distributed after the Monday-night draft, was at Boland Little League Park, and the other was on a smaller baseball diamond behind the park, owned and maintained by the town, adjacent to the playground, which boasted swings, sandboxes, seesaws and even several horseshoe courts for the older folks.

Following our weeks of practice, the official season would commence. Each team was scheduled to play twelve games, two games a week for six weeks, with four games played against each of the other three teams. All games would be played at Little League Park on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday evenings,
commencing at five
P.M
. Should a game be rained out, it would be rescheduled for Friday evening or Saturday morning. Actually two postponed games could be played on Saturday if necessary. After each team had completed its twelve-game schedule, the two with the best won-lost record would play one game for the league championship.

On our way home, after the draft, Bill West offered to phone the players we had selected to inform them that our first practice would be at Little League Park on the following Tuesday afternoon at four, but I told him that if I was going to manage the team, then I believed it was my duty to get on the phone. He looked surprised, then pleased, then grinned and nodded his head approvingly.

Shortly after seven on Tuesday evening I settled down at my desk in the den to notify twelve young men that they were now Angels. Shuffling the individual player cards that Nancy had handed us following each of our selections, and reading the names on our roster, one after another, made me think that we had not only drafted for Little League but also for a little League of Nations: Todd Stevenson, John Kimball, Anthony Zullo, Paul Taylor, Charles Barrio, Justin Nurnberg, Robert Murphy, Ben Rogers, Chris Lang, Jeff Gaston, Dick Andros and Timothy Noble.

Bill West had left me with a gentle warning when he dropped me off after the Monday draft. Most of the kids were familiar with him, the other three managers and every coach, but I was a stranger in town, an unknown factor that might cause our players some unease
and uncertainty, at least at first. It was a wise observation, and I thanked him. Before making any phone calls I scribbled some notes on a legal pad, outlining a simple procedure for me to follow once I was on the phone as well as some key words to use. Dialing each player’s phone number, I would ask for him first after identifying myself, no matter who answered the phone. I would then welcome the boy to the Angels, tell him he had been selected because he was a fine ball player and that our first practice was scheduled for next Tuesday at four. I would then ask if the boy had a ride to the park and someone to pick him up at six after each practice. Many, I discovered, got around Boland quite well on their bicycles. I had forgotten how independent country kids always are. After chatting with the player I would ask to speak with his father, introduce myself to the gentleman, tell him that I was proud to have his son on my team and ask him to call me, at home, anytime, if there was anything he wished to discuss concerning his son during the season. I would close by mentioning that I was looking forward to meeting every parent at one of our practices or games soon and that I would certainly be grateful for their support. If the father was not at home when I phoned, I would have a similar conversation with the boy’s mother. My final phone call was to little Timothy Noble.

“Timothy Noble?”

“Yes.”

“Timothy, this is John Harding, Little League manager
of the Angels. I’m calling to tell you that you will be playing for the Angels this year.”

“All right!!!”

“First practice is next Tuesday at four o’clock at Little League Park. Can you make it okay?”

“Yes, sir! I’ll be there!”

“Will you be able to get a ride to the field and then home? Practice will end at six o’clock—always.”

“I have a bike, sir. I’ll be there. Mr. Harding, could you please tell me some of the other guys on the team?”

“Sure. Todd Stevenson, Paul Taylor, John Kimball, Anthony Zullo—do you know any of those fellows?”

“I’ll be playing with them? Wow! They’re all great. We’ll have a good team, a super team!”

“And I’m counting on you to do your part, Timothy. Now, is your dad around? I’d like to talk with him if I may.”

The little guy’s lilting voice immediately fell several octaves, and he replied swiftly, in a flat, husky monotone with no hint of emotion, “My dad lives in California.”

Caught off guard, I hesitated. How to reply? Finally I said lamely, “Oh … well, could I speak with your mother?”

“She’s not home from work yet.”

I glanced at my watch. Exactly seven-forty.

“Oh. Ah … okay, Timothy, we’ll see you on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Yes, sir. And … Mr. Harding, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you very much for picking me. I’ll try hard to do good for you.”

I hung up slowly. My heart was suddenly pounding. While talking to Timothy I had turned my head to the left. Among a cluster of framed family photographs, hanging on the wall nearest me, was a color enlargement of my Rick wearing a slightly oversize baseball cap, staring intently at the camera while he crouched menacingly with his aluminum baseball bat cocked behind his right shoulder. I rose, walked slowly from the room out onto the deck, sank limply into the chaise rocker and remained there, staring off into the distant woods until long after darkness fell.

It was a tortuously long seven days, waiting for the team’s first scheduled practice session. I worked very hard at trying to fill every waking moment with some sort of activity, either of body or mind or both, so that I didn’t stumble and fall into that always nearby pool of despair. I would force myself out of bed at seven each morning and after breakfast went off for a long hike through the woods behind the house. Then I would take my red practice shag bag of golf balls and my short irons and stroke shot after shot from one golf pin to the other in our backyard. After darkness I would jog for perhaps an hour, return, shower, and put on my pajamas and robe. Then I would sit at the kitchen table, despite the far more comfortable chairs in other rooms, and try to read. During the years of struggling up corporate ladders, I had acquired a large collection of some of the
world’s best self-help and inspirational books to assist in my climb, classics such as Allen’s
As a Man Thinketh
, Hill’s
Think and Grow Rich
, Peale’s
The Power of Positive Thinking
, Stone’s
Success Through a Positive Mental Attitude
, and Danforth’s
I Dare You
. Now I spent countless hours each evening, searching through these and scores of other books, hoping to find special words of wisdom or consolation that might help me to deal with the pain of my loss. In an old leather-bound nineteenth-century anthology of wise sayings I finally discovered some precious words of solace from Benjamin Franklin and Antiphanes, a Greek dramatist from the fourth century before Christ.

At the funeral of a close associate Franklin had told mourners, “We are spirits. Our friend, as well as all of us, were invited abroad on a party of pleasure which is to last forever. His chair was ready first and so he has gone before us. We could not all conveniently start together and why should you and I be grieved at this, since we are soon to follow and know where to find him.”

Amazingly, more than two thousand years earlier, Anthiphanes had written, “Be not grieved above the measure for thy deceased loved ones. They are not dead, but have only finished the journey which it is necessary for every one of us to take. We ourselves must go to that great place of reception in which they are all of them assembled and, in this general rendezvous of mankind, live together in another state of being.”

Once again I remembered my mother’s similar advice to those mourning the loss of a loved one. Accepting
that advice, whoever was giving it, required a giant leap of faith. God, how I wanted to believe their words!

During that long week of waiting I renewed two other common activities of life, answering a telephone and driving an automobile. Don’t know what made me pick up the phone on Wednesday morning to hear Bill’s surprised voice on the other end. After that he called every morning just to check on me. As to the driving, I went nowhere in particular, just backed my car out of the garage one afternoon and drove around the back roads of New Hampshire for a couple of hours. In spite of all my efforts, however, I still went into my den at least once each day, pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk and stared down at the gun. Once I picked it up and held it cupped in my hands for several minutes. The deadly thing felt very cold, almost as if it had been packed in ice.

Even though I pulled into Boland Little League’s parking lot early, for our first practice session, Bill West was already there ahead of me, removing two large canvas bags from his car’s trunk, one containing catchers’ equipment and boxes of baseballs and the other filled with batting helmets and bats.

“Let me give you a hand,” I yelled, coming up behind Bill and lifting one of the bags. Together we walked through the fence opening and turned toward the nearest dugout, behind first base, as the players who had arrived early came running toward us while, in the parking lot, several car doors slammed as mothers dropped off their hopeful athletes.

Bill passed out some baseballs, suggesting that the boys pair off and begin warming up. Some were dressed in blue jeans and T-shirts, others wore last year’s now-tight baseball pants. Some had baseball shoes, others wore sneakers, high and low. Soon we had two rows of six players, tossing balls back and forth, a few very serious and obviously nervous, while others were laughing and loose. Bill and I casually walked behind first one row of six players and then the other, introducing ourselves to every boy. Each was told, as we shook hands, that I was John Harding and he was Bill West. The word
coach
would be fine for both of us if they didn’t want to call us by name, and we said that there was no need for ‘sir’ or ‘Mister.’ Also, as we chatted with each new Angel, we asked him what position he liked to play and if he had participated in Little League last year. Gradually we could sense that all players were beginning to relax. The smiles multiplied.

It was amazing to me how much we managed to accomplish during that first practice. Bill West sent groups out to the shortstop and second-base positions and hit several balls to each player, who had to field the ball and then throw it to first, where there were two candidates for that position. I stood in short right field and observed how players moved and reacted to Bill’s hits. Two of them, Anthony Zullo and Paul Taylor, fielded flawlessly and threw to first with good accuracy. The Taylor kid, in a tight T-shirt, had a great upper body, which I was sure had taken a good deal of time and effort to develop.

We repeated the same procedure with our outfield candidates, hitting several ground balls and fly balls to each of them. We also had them throwing the balls they fielded back to our only catcher candidate, John Kimball, looking for strong arms that might be converted into another pitcher or two. Two players, Charles Barrio and Justin Nurnberg, looked very fast and competent and could throw.

Eventually Bill hit three fly balls to little Timothy Noble. Two he failed to get under and the third caromed off his glove and rolled far behind him. The ground ball hit to him went right through his open legs.

At our second practice session, on Thursday, we commenced by putting a tentative team on the field based on our observations from the first practice, with Bill hitting both ground and fly balls to each position while I walked around and offered suggestions on the best way to catch a fly ball, how to position oneself to best handle a ground ball and, most important, how to throw a baseball properly. I was very impressed by our catcher, short, muscular John Kimball, who had two years of Little League under his belt and a cannon for an arm. Any baseball team, amateur or professional, without a good catcher plays under a terrible handicap. We were very fortunate to have Kimball.