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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Coming of Age / Initiation
- Published: 02/24/2021
Smile at the Birdie
Born 1955, M, from Manasquan, NJ, United States.jpeg)
I wasn’t very fast but had a decent batting average and an excellent throwing arm. After three seasons playing junior varsity and varsity, that’s what I brought to the baseball team’s spring tryouts during my second year of eleventh grade (I had to repeat my first junior year due to absenteeism). I also brought a cocky attitude, shoulder length hair, and a patchy, teenaged beard. Soon as I parked alongside the practice field in my used Volkswagen Beetle, Coach told me in a gruff, no nonsense tone, I’ll need to shave and get a haircut before even thinking of putting a uniform on.
By then I was working part time at the local Post Office. It was a highly coveted work/study position coordinating with the high school’s split sessions, and the only reason I got the job was because my mother called in a favor. While most of my peers earned minimum wage washing dishes or flipping burgers at greasy spoons downtown, I made a postal worker’s hourly wage. The pay provided fuel and insurance for the aforementioned car, and plenty of cash left over for fun. While the work didn’t interfere with school hours, there’d be a conflict with games and practices and as a result less money.
The excuse I initially gave Coach Miller for quitting the team was not wanting to cut my hair or shave. He expressed genuine disappointment and to my surprise, offered a compromise by saying all I had to do was shave. “The hair,” he admitted with a sigh, “can be tied up and tucked under your hat.” That’s when I played the ‘poor, fatherless, half-orphan card’ telling him I really need all the hours I can get at the P. O.
Instead of reaching sympathetic ears this excuse sparked outrage from the coach. “That’s bull shit!” he shouted, jumping up from behind his musty desk. “You might want those extra hours, but don’t stand there telling me you need them. Besides, you’ve got the rest of your life to make money!” By now most of the team heard the commotion and was listening to Miller’s rant through the reinforced glass separating his office from the lockers. “Furthermore,” he continued, realizing he now had an audience, “making extra money is easy. Hell, I’m doin it right now just by yelling at your dumbass!” With laughter resounding throughout the locker room, the only way to salvage what little macho pride I had left was to walk out while delivering a one fingered salute over my shoulder.
It took a decade or so before I realized everything Coach Miller said was true. My reason for quitting was, in fact, disingenuous. I didn’t need the extra money, only wanted it; furthermore, he might be smugly satisfied to know all I ever got with that extra money was into trouble. Coach was right on his second point as well, about having plenty of time to make money. Lastly, he was spot on telling me how making money is easy, but he could’ve added, especially when you like your job. But then again he seemed to enjoy yelling at me so perhaps that lesson was implicit through example.
While Coach’s choice of words and delivery may have been a tad harsh by today’s standards, if I was able to somehow go back and explain those same ideas more gently to my younger self, the result would be the same. I’d still walk away while flipping my older, wiser self the bird.
Still Bill
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