Jacob caught for us for the whole time the team was together. Kevin, being a catcher himself, took it upon Jacob to relay all of the finer points of the position to Jacob. In the comments, Dylan was with the team for most of our run and played mostly first base.
Got word Monday morning my old baseball coach, Kevin O’Reilly, died Sunday of brain and lung cancer. He coached this team, the Rockville Rangers, from the time I was 11 years old until I was 14. He was the toughest man I’ve ever been around. (He’s in the top left corner of this photo with his hand around my shoulder.) He was gruff. He was the first coach I played for who cursed at his players, who ran us hard and really taught us about life: what it meant to have a work ethic, to push yourself further than you thought possible, to not take ourselves so seriously. I’m honored — honored — to have played for him, and no remembrance would be complete without a couple stories.
Here goes:
Coach served in Vietnam and wouldn’t let us forget it. If it rained, he’d tell us, “This isn’t Vietnam rain.” When it was hot, “This isn’t Vietnam heat.” When we asked for bug spray: “These aren’t Vietnam bugs.” To which I now say, bullshit, and I’d like to visit Vietnam someday so he can prove me wrong.
We’d play in tournaments every year on Memorial Day and instead of a post-game speech after those games, he’d tell us about his time in the service, about carrying your body weight in gear while traipsing through the jungle. Then he’d pick up my catcher’s gear and haul it back to the parking lot from the field. It was the one day a year that he’d carry bags, something normally reserved for the rest of the team. Afterward, he’d hop in his car and ride downtown to see Rolling Thunder.
One of my problems as a 12-year-old (and indeed today) was struggling to force myself to focus, and Coach took it upon himself to teach me such a skill. He made me slow down and breathe and think and evaluate myself. After each inning, he’d grab my by the collar of my chest protector and pull my face close to his to ask me about the pitches I called, or the bunt defense we were in. “Think,” he’d tell me with increasing volume. “Think. Think.”
Never has a man so devoted to the game and its players set foot on a baseball diamond. He’ll be deeply missed.
“Hold it like an egg. Throw it like a hand grenade.”
Here goes:
Coach served in Vietnam and wouldn’t let us forget it. If it rained, he’d tell us, “This isn’t Vietnam rain.” When it was hot, “This isn’t Vietnam heat.” When we asked for bug spray: “These aren’t Vietnam bugs.” To which I now say, bullshit, and I’d like to visit Vietnam someday so he can prove me wrong.
We’d play in tournaments every year on Memorial Day and instead of a post-game speech after those games, he’d tell us about his time in the service, about carrying your body weight in gear while traipsing through the jungle. Then he’d pick up my catcher’s gear and haul it back to the parking lot from the field. It was the one day a year that he’d carry bags, something normally reserved for the rest of the team. Afterward, he’d hop in his car and ride downtown to see Rolling Thunder.
One of my problems as a 12-year-old (and indeed today) was struggling to force myself to focus, and Coach took it upon himself to teach me such a skill. He made me slow down and breathe and think and evaluate myself. After each inning, he’d grab my by the collar of my chest protector and pull my face close to his to ask me about the pitches I called, or the bunt defense we were in. “Think,” he’d tell me with increasing volume. “Think. Think.”
Never has a man so devoted to the game and its players set foot on a baseball diamond. He’ll be deeply missed.
“Hold it like an egg. Throw it like a hand grenade.”
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