Coach Ashton

I just found out my high school baseball coach has died. No surprise, I think he was 114 when I played for him. Once a year during practice he'd put on a clinic by slapping about 40 singles in a row up the middle. He was one of those guys that came to the school after WWII and coached every sport, lined the fields, set up equipment and probably sold tickets. He also taught Spanish, which I always thought was funny since he mumbled and nobody could understand him speaking English; in all my years playing for him the only word I ever understood was "Travis." He also couldn't get through a game without bumping his head on the top of the dugout, seemingly surprised it was there despite having coached about 40000 games. He taught Driver's Ed, and we'd end up yammering about sports and he'd get distracted and next thing you'd know we'd be in King George County or some shit, an hour and a half away from school.

He's 6th all-time in the state for wins with 425. He is the definition of a small-town institution. I'll always remember the last thing he ever said to me when I ran into him about 2 years ago: "When did you become a mountain?"  ;) During practice he'd fungo balls for two hours, but if you actually wanted one hit to you you'd hafta pretend you weren't paying attention, then he'd try to surprise you. How awesome was baseball practice in high school?

Baseball was the only sport in high school where practices were more fun than games. You'd stand around the outfield with your buddies, cracking each other up while about once every 7 weeks a fly ball might come your way. Football practice was pure misery, so games were a relief. And basketball you'd just run and run and run, so the games seemed easier. But baseball - on game days, you'd almost be disappointed. "We gotta play a game today? Damn."

And Coach, don't worry - I forgive you for pulling me from center field  ;)

My first ever varsity game, I started in center field...looking back I don't know why I would've been in center instead of left....maybe our regular cf got raped by a bear on the way to the game? Mmmmmm....sexy....ANYways, like I said, I'm blind as a bat which, along with the dim lighting as dusk set in and a ball covered in dirt and colored a perfectly dull beige, meant that I couldn't see the ball off the bat. Which is not a great thing when you're, you know...playing baseball. Or, to be honest, walking or standing anywhere near the ballfield. I could usually pick it up a second later, along with seeing where everybody else was looking at. I know, real Willie Mays stuff. - fucking baseball, and I gotta be Sherlock fucking Holmes out there. THANKS cones and rods! Anyway, it's late in the game - dusk at it's worst, and I can barely see the batter from center field, much less a goddam ball going 150mph off a bat. All of a sudden I hear a PING!! (aluminum bats, people) and this goes through my head:

"well, THAT was fucking crushed...okay, where's it going...what's everybody looking at.........why's everybody looking at me?" and then THOOOOMP!!!.....I hear the ball land like a fucking meteorite about 3 feet to my right. Ohoh.

Let me tell you people something: it's a looooooooooooooong walk to the dugout from 350 feet away. In the middle of an inning. As your replacement is spryly skipping past you. It's easy to be embarrassed as a 15 year old, so you can imagine how awesome this felt in front of a full set of bleachers. My coach said I wasn't going in again until I got glasses, which I did by the next game.

Happy fungo-ing, Coach.