Coach Hogan

When 고운 and I discuss our future and life in America, it invariably comes back to one thing: I want have to coach my son's baseball team.

There are few things that I want in this life. I want my children to be worldly, compassionate and concerned for the earth and their fellow man; my marriage solid and I want to coach my son's (or daughter's) baseball team. It might sound odd, but as we all know, Kristin and I had the amazing experience of having Dad coach our teams as we grew up. This was a bond that will forever stick with me and nothing can ever compare to some of the times that Dad and I shared together with the baseball.

Baseball is not my favorite sport -American football is, but when I look at a baseball diamond or see a glove or baseball, the memories come rushing back.

First, let me start by saying that Dad is not an athlete. In fact, I would be so bold to say that he is one of the most unathletic people I know, but that didn't stop him from trying failing to jump on a trampoline for the first at 40 years old or playing hours and hours of shuffleboard and ping pong with me and it certainly didn't stop him from being one of the best coaches a young boy could have.

I say "best", but it wasn't because he had supreme knowledge of the sport. That wasn't necessary for the hoards of little-leaguers that he would guide through the beginnings of the sport. He was the best because of the enthusiasm that he showed while coaching. I remember sitting with Dad on so many occasions while he and I would figure out each players batting averages and try to find the best place for them to bat in the line-up. He would spend months talking to other coaches, trying to find the best players for the upcoming little league draft. He had an unrivaled enthusiasm for baseball season and a gift for a fun, encouraging and productive practice. No matter how busy he was at work, he always seemed to be able to pull away and hit a few balls at practice or toss it around in our small and stick-riddled back yard.

To Dad, it wasn't about baseball. It was time with his children and family. As we know, he didn't have a close relationship with his father. There seemed to be some favoritism in the family and the attention was on Margaret Rose, rather than little Johnny. Maybe it was his adoption or maybe it was his father's inability to convey emotions well, but Dad told me about his rocky relationship with his father and always made it very clear to me that he did not intend our relationship to turn out like that. Baseball was his conduit. It was his way of opening the door to a close relationship with his children and wife. He didn't really love baseball; he loved what baseball stood for in our family.

Before this starts to sound more and more like a eulogy, I want to mention a Coach Hogan highlight. My earliest comes from my Tee Ball days which, of course, was towards the beginning of Dad's career as my coach. After a furious game where the Hogan-Paine (First baseman-Pitcher) combo led the way after a disastrous little boy decided that the pitcher's mound was second base, our Tee Ball team (The Black Knights -how did I remember that?) coasted to victory. The team gathered for its inspirational talk led by Coach Hogan. Dad was designed for inspirational talks. His voice gets just calm and non-threatening enough and his hand gestures are so subtle that he can use the same method with five year old's as he would with his hotelier colleagues. So the meeting started and Dad was wheeling along, making the parents and kids feel great. Out of nowhere, a mischievous little boy named Mark Wheeler stood up and decided that needed to tell the entire group something. It was so pressing that he couldn't wait for another moment.

"Coach Hogan...You have grey hair!!!"

His voice seemed to almost have a certain level of concern in it as he made the declaration. I can't say that I remember the reaction, but I know that it was funny and I know that Dad's skin was thick enough to take such scathing criticism. I have heard that story so many times from Mom, that when I think of Mark saying it, all I can hear is Mom's boy-voice impersonation, which sounds more like a sad cartoon bear or Eeyore than an actual child.

Practices were always so much fun as well. We'd do all the basic stuff and Dad would do his best not to favor me, but he did. It would have been impossible not to. And even though he was coaching all of those other kids out there, we both knew it was just me and him out there. I know now that he did that for me. I was on his team and he was my coach just like he was to the other boys, but at the end of the day it was our team. It was our team that we planned together. It was our team that we mocked when playing catch in the backyard ("Now, pretend to catch the ball like Jeff Sweeney!" he would say and so I would intentionally fall down and Dad and I would laugh and laugh.) It was our team that we arrived to practice early for and our team that we stayed behind after. It was our team, but he did that for me. He did that for our family.

When he would arrange the team picnics at Sequoia or a family outing to the Nashville Sounds game or the batting cages, he did that out of love and care for our family. He knew it bonded us. When he would give all of the kids trophy's at the end of the season even though we weren't the best team, he did that because he cared. He cared about his team, sure, but he cared about what baseball meant to us. As I grew older and the rigors of coaching and the need to become a traveling All-Star team took hold, Dad stepped down as Head Coach. We hired some guy named Steve Hicks to take the helms. Most of the guys on our team played together for years and I can tell you that once Dad left as Head, the entire teams enthusiasm dropped. Dad knew why we all played baseball and it wasn't for the win, it was for the fun. It was for being together and sharing something.

I played on so many of Dads teams. We were awful for years and years as well. We were awful on the Orioles, the A's, the Rockies, and three years of Phillies. We were not known as the powerhouse team, but we were all friends. And call it karma, but my last season under Coach Hogan, we were the number one team.

And as life has continued on and I am no longer a boy, I will always have those memories; those amazingly special, loving and youthful memories. I will always be thankful for his enthusiasm and love that came from that beautiful baseball diamond.

Unlike Dad, I will not have to tell my children that I was never close to my father. And I can guarantee you that there will be another Coach Hogan around within the decade and, luckily, I learned from the best.

It's only fitting to end with song that Dad and I concluded so many of our games and practices with. We would blare this tune in the Peugeot with the sunroof down, just enjoying our time as coach and player; father and son.



Thank you, Coach Hogan.


From Kristin:

Those were the days:

This entry brings back SO many great memories that filled each spring and summer for many years. I, too, have funny memories of Dad and softball. We would make fun of the poor innocent kids that were drafted onto our teams as last picks. This would include Annie who we called "Ronald McDonald" because of her bright red shiny cleats. The funny part was that she really didn't need them because she was so bad. Then there was the girl (Allison?) that wore white Keds and was only on our team because her big sister was good and they were a package deal.

I loved going as a family to West End Junior High and playing ball there. We would take turns hitting, pitching and fielding. Mom was my favorite fielder! ;) GOod times for sure. I, too, want to recreate those memories with Hattie and those to come.