A Kid Called "Big D"

I ran into an old friend a few nights ago. The Red Head and I were eating a late supper, and we went to a little place downtown that serves burgers, chicken fingers, and fried catfish. Business was kind of slow for a Friday night, and a tall young man saw us and came out of the kitchen. D.B. sat down at my invitation, gave us a big smile, and offered a handshake, which I declined in favor of a big hug. He explained that he was home from college for the weekend, trying to make a few bucks. We talked for a while--got caught up on the details of his life. He's 21 now and a year away from a college degree. It looks like he's going to turn out to be a fine man with a bright future. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have bet on that outcome.

Allow me to digress. When my two boys were young, I coached youth baseball. I've always loved the game, and I had a desire that they learn to play it the way it is supposed to be played. I always felt I had to coach out of necessity. It's an unfortunate fact that most of the men who are youth baseball coaches know very little about the game. I can't fault them, because they are volunteering their time and are filling a need that allows kids to participate in a good activity. But I wanted to do more than babysit--I wanted to teach. It was through these experiences that I met a lot of great kids. One of my favorites is D.B.

I first met D.B. when he was seven years old. He was small and thin, even for his age--maybe 70 pounds soaking wet. I nicknamed most of my players, and his became "Big D', an obvious irony due to his small stature. He was quiet, had a big smile, and was a coach's dream. Not extremely athletic, but a hustler who listened, learned quickly, and would try to run through a brick wall if you asked him too. He didn't possess the basic mechanics of the game at first. Like a lot of kids who are raised without a father at home, he lacked the experience of the backyard pitch and catch. But like I said, he picked it up quickly. He was hungry to be good, so we spent extra time after scheduled practices, working on pitching, hitting, and fielding--much of it in my backyard.

I would be his coach for the next six years. For a few months each year, we became a part of each others lives. He lived in the government housing project with his grandmother. His mom seemed nice, but lived elsewhere and worked a lot of hours to try to keep things together without the daddy around. With only a few exceptions over the course of those years, the Red Head and I picked him up and took him home-- from practices, games, whatever. He became a part of our family each baseball season. He spent the night at our house a couple of times, and I took him to his first (and only) Atlanta Braves game. I always hated to take him back to the projects. Such a nice kid to be living on a thug-lined street. His next door neighbor, only two years older, would several years later (at age seventeen) kill a convenience store clerk in a robbery.

There are a couple of instances in our time together that I will never forget. They are minor details in the story, yet it's funny how such things remain with you after so many years.

When Big D was nine, he began the season as my number one pitcher. The problem was that my number two pitcher was my only experienced catcher, and I had no other candidates. Although he was still small and had never played the position, I decided that Big D was my best option to put behind the plate. Now for those of you that may not know the intricacies of baseball, the catcher wears a "special" piece of protective equipment. It is basically an athletic supporter with a hard plastic cup insert, designed to protect a sensitive area. I purchased one of these for Big D, handed him the store bag, and told him to wear it to the next practice. When I picked him up the next day for practice, he jumped in the car all smiles. "I got on that little panty you gave me." Raised by women, no idea of what I thought any boy that age would have known.

The second occasion was the District All-Star tournament when Big D was ten. We were playing our arch rivals (a team from the adjacent town) at their field, and Big D was on the mound. Now as a pitcher, Big D barely threw hard enough to break a window--but he had amazing control for his age. Before he took the field I took him aside. "Try to keep the ball down and just throw strikes. If they hit it, we'll get 'em out. I don't want walks."

It was the best game I've ever seen a ten-year-old pitch. Nothing but strike outs and easy ground balls. I doubt the other team had three players get on base all night. As the team celebrated I pulled Big D aside. I asked a question, though I already knew the answer. "How many did you walk, D?" "Nairin" he replied with a grin. For those of you who don't speak Alabamian, that means "none". It was an absolutely amazing performance, one rarely achieved by a pitcher at any level of the game.

When Big D became a teenager, I left the coaching to the professionals, so our time together came to an end. I would still see him around town some, but his small size eventually caught up to him. He didn't make the team at the high school level, and his baseball days were over. Mine too.

I left our visit in the restaurant with a feeling that the story of Big D is going to have a happy ending. Who knows? Maybe he'll coach my grand kids one day. I know I'd sure like that.