The View From Third Base
Coaching Youth Baseball is Always Full Of Surprises
Editor’s note: My son, John Nogowski Jr. made it to the major leagues in 2020-2021 with the St. Louis Cardinals and Pittsburgh Pirates. So I’ve spent a lot of time on the baseball field, watching baseball, writing about baseball and yes, coaching baseball. And coaching kids is always interesting.
ON COACHING THIRD BASE
“The unexpected moment is always sweeter” – Julia Quinn
As far I know, Julia Quinn has never coached third base. If she had, her quote might be understandable. For when you occupy that position, you are one of two people in uniform on the field without gloves, expected to direct traffic, deliver signals and occasionally, offer suggestions/recommendations/advice to the player with the bat in his hand. Perhaps, as the innings roll on, you might even offer even an encouraging word for the men in blue. (This is unlikely, of course but it is presented here for the betterment of the game.)
One of my most enjoyable assignments in my Democrat sportswriting days was the May afternoon in 1996 FSU coach Mike Martin permitted me to sit in the Seminole dugout during a 13-5 win over Florida Atlantic. One of the many things I got to see that the fans probably did not was a lively exchange between diminutive third base coach Chip “The Colonel” Baker and home plate umpire Joe Correia. At one point in the game, when Jeremy Morris came around to score on a Billy Brown double, the “Colonel” – perhaps because he was closer to the ground than anyone else out there – noticed that Brown’s bat was in the third base line, a potentially dangerous obstacle for an onrushing baserunner. “A good umpire,” Baker hollers homeward, “would have moved that bat.” And the debate was on. Finally, Correia responded “I DIDN’T SEE THE BAT. And I don't want to get yelled at again. I don't care what happens. That's it." The Colonel walks away, muttering "Let them get hurt then. A good ump would have moved that bat." At this point, Coach Martin and pitching coach Jamey Shouppe are laughing. "You're in his dome," shortstop Brooks Badeaux says. "He's yours, Colonel."
In my own experiences coaching third base in Advanced Play at Myers Park a few years back, a couple of third-base moments stick with me, especially when I think about Quinn’s quote about “the unexpected moment.”
We’re in a tight ballgame. There are two outs, it’s the late innings and I have a fast runner on third base. Since I had noticed in the early innings that the pitcher seemed unusually deliberate and it seemed doubtful that the hitter at the plate was going to deliver him (he’d already whiffed twice on six pitches), I motioned to my runner to come closer for further instruction.
“On the second pitch,” I whispered to him. “The moment the pitcher moves – even a little – take off and DON’T STOP. Just go!”
The third baseman, alert, looks over at us. He knows something is up but doesn't say anything. Then the runner, about to take his lead, looks over at me again and says, in a clearly audible voice, “On the second pitch?”
“Wait a minute,” I laugh, shaking my head. “Let me get it up in the press box so the whole park can hear it.”
Yet, sure enough, as instructed, as the pitcher begins his motion to throw that second pitch, my runner takes off like a shot and flies down the baseline – the batter has moved out of the way, the ball hasn’t arrived yet, the catcher is panicking - and my runner STOPS. STOPS there in the baseline. STOPS SHORT OF HOME PLATE, a step away.
The rattled pitcher flings the ball past the poor catcher, who goes to the screen to retrieve it. Once it gets by, my runner takes that next step and scores. After he touches the plate, I call him over for further instruction.
“Why in the world did you stop?” I asked. “You could have scored before the ball even got there.”
“I don't know," he shrugs. "It just didn’t seem right.”
But the moment that I’ll always remember from that season came in our next-to-last playoff game, the one we had to win to get to the championship. My formidable opponent had had an eye on this game for weeks, resting his best pitcher just to face us. And his plan worked brilliantly. Here it was, the top of the seventh and we were losing, 2-1. It was a heck of a ballgame and we were three outs from the end of our season. We'd dominated the league but that didn't matter now. One more out and we were done.
With two outs, we started a rally with the bottom of the order and suddenly, we had runners on second and third. But at the plate was our No. 9 hitter. On the other side of the field, the coach was confident, nodded at his pitcher, “One more out," he said. "Go get him."
Our batter, one of our 11-year-olds who had spent the season trying to swim in very deep, fast water, stepped out of the batter’s box and looked at me with terrified eyes. When you’re hitting 9th and the game, the season is on you, the youngest kid on the team, that’s a lot to deal with. I had to think of something. I walked down towards the plate.
“Look, Tyler,” I said in a stage voice, making sure the opposition could hear it, too. "I KNOW you haven’t gotten a hit yet. And THEY KNOW you haven’t gotten a hit yet. So this is your moment. I need you to smack that ball into left field and get these runners in and give us the lead. Now, let’s go, buddy. Do it.” If Babe Ruth could call his shot in a World Series...why not at Myers Park?
On the very next pitch, the crack of Tyler’s bat brought every player on our team to their feet. The crowd erupted as sure enough, he drove the ball into the gap between the left and center fielders – just as I had instructed - driving in both runs to give us a lead we held. We won the championship in the next game.
Still a little stunned by everything, our postgame meeting seemed a bit unreal. But when I presented Tyler with the game ball, his smile lit up the Myers Park night. I bet he still has it. Later, his mom told he stared at the baseball all the way home.