DC Reflections

How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday

[Oct. 21, 2014] I hit the road on two wheels this morning, getting a late start at 10:30 but happy to be out for a ride. The weather guessers on TV had said a big storm would hit in the afternoon so I didn’t venture to the Mount Vernon trail as I had hoped.  

The question remained, though: Could I maintain my birthday tradition of “riding my age”? I hadn’t done a ride that long since I started Orion’s Attic. I decided that I’d be happy to get in my usual 20 to 30 miles.

My legs felt strong early on, giving me the confidence that 30 miles was within reach. I warmed my way into the ride on a sun-kissed autumn day and then took a defensive posture as I approached the terrorist squirrel bridge on the Northwest Branch trail. I had to be on the lookout for more suicide bomber squirrels and any other attacks they might launch. I saw that the bridge was devoid of all bushy-tailed rodents, increasing my suspicions. Had they planted some acorn-obscured Improvised Explosive Devices?

I exited the bridge safely but still not trusting the little traitors. I looked up and, holy smokes, is that Adam Jones?

I slowed to a crawl as I studied the man. He looked exactly like Jones in the face. He had sweats pulled up over his calves in the manner that the Baltimore Orioles’ center fielder wears his uniform pants. The man was warming up, stretching in a specific way, just like I’ve seen Jones do so many times. The motions were identical. That couldn’t be Jones. What would he be doing out here in the middle of nowhere a week after the season ended? The man’s face so spot-on mirrored Jones, though, that it almost brought me to a stop as I sneaked up behind him. 

Nah, it just can’t be, I thought. It makes no sense. Then again, Jones may be the most social guy in baseball. Maybe he has friends down here. He’s the epitome of “fan friendly” so maybe he’s doing some other gig with the fans. I chickened out and accelerated at the last second.

I pushed on but couldn’t stop thinking about him and whether I should turn back. I wouldn’t have asked for his autograph but there were all kinds of things I wanted to say to him. I would thank him for his work ethic and hustle, how hard he runs out every ball in every game. I’d thank him for giving so much of himself to his team and his town. I’d thank him for the way he interacts with the fans. I don’t mind dropping the dollars my girlfriend Won-ok and I do on the O’s, I’d tell him, because he and the rest of our guys don’t play like millionaire gold bricks. They work on the baseball field. 

I also wanted to thank him and the whole Orioles team for giving Won-ok and I so many memories and turning in such a great season. I wanted to compliment him and the boys for not throwing in the towel when Matt Wieters and Manny Machado went down or when Chris Davis shot all of Birdland in the foot by getting himself suspended for the playoffs. 

I approached another bridge, one of the highest-over-the-ground on the trail. Maybe I should go back for another look, I thought. I could be back there in a few minutes. No, wait, I don’t want to be the millionth idiot that asks him, “Are you Adam Jones?” Like what’s he going to say? “No, I’m J.J. Hardy?” 

My wheels hit I don’t even know what and time stopped as it always does for me in those moments in which I'm about to crash. I was skidding and sliding and all my crashing options looked grim.

I toppled left. I yanked myself right and went too far, toppling that way. Option one – crash into the railing of the bridge and possibly get ejected over it or through the gap at the start of it and fall 20 feet on to the rocks below. “No, Moron! That’s the worst option!” my inner voice screamed at me. Option 2 – eat the chain link fence on the left. Option 3 – crash into the center post with the family jewels. “No, Moron, that’s no good, either!” 

I came to a complete stop, still somehow perched atop my bike, without even consciously realizing what I had done to save myself. I looked down and saw that I had pulled an old mountain biking trick – pushing myself back toward the tail of the bike while hanging onto the brakes with the very tips of my fingers. 

Whew! Another split second of delay and what was behind curtain Numbers 1, 2 or 3 would have spilled some blood – or worse.

I caught my breath and felt my body trembling in some post-almost-wreck shakes. “Damn, Adam Jones,” I thought. “Why do you want to do me like that?” 

I realized at that moment that the guy sttretching by the side of the trail could not have been Jones. The pro athlete whose shirt I so often wear when I'm not sporting my Buck Showalter stands a good 6'3' and weighs something like 225 pounds. The guy I saw could not have been more than 5'10'' and 180 pounds. I laughed and pedaled away, a grin crossing my face that was equal parts happy-to-be-unscathed and joy in the knowledge that I knew what my next blog post was going to be: “How Adam Jones almost caused me to crash my bike on my birthday.” My birthday nearly brought a trip to the emergency room but hey, at least I was going to get a good story out of it!

Perhaps the save was my first birthday gift of the day. My second came just ahead. My egret friend was waiting for me in his usual spot in the Anacostia River tributary. He was so entranced by his hunting efforts that he didn’t pay me much attention – until he stayed true-to-form by taking flight the moment I got my iPhone out to take his picture. I don’t know why the heron clan is so camera shy. 

I made my way to Lake Artemesia at about the 13-mile mark. To even reach 30 miles without any side trips, I was going to have to put in four miles there. If I seriously wanted to do 46 miles, I was going to have to find some alternate riding options, or do 20 miles around the lake – about 15 laps. 

I wasn’t in the mood for creating 20 new miles. I didn’t want to have to think about it. I just wanted to churn my legs, take in the natural and human scenery and enjoy turning 46. 

I ate a very light lunch with a gaggle of geese, hunk of ham, a Coke and a smile -- then knocked out 20 miles around the lake.

I didn’t do a whole lot of reflecting on the ride, the way I usually do on my birthday. I have done so much big thinking about my life lately that I was all thought out. I just existed as one with my bike and the beauty all around me.

I neared the 46-mile mark as I crossed Piney Branch Road on the Sligo Creek Parkway trail. My eyes focused mostly on my odometer. I hit 46 and started singing Happy Birthday to myself in my head. I was celebrating my birthday and successfully riding my age. I looked up the moment I began singing and spotted and old, black and white Siberian husky leading his people along the trail. I pulled even with him. He looked up and into my blue eyes with his bluer eyes.  

I burst into tears, a quick downpour that was so hard I nearly had to stop the bike because I couldn’t see: I knew that was my long departed friend Orion’s way of joining me to celebrate my birthday. A thousand things had to happen today for me to pass that dog at the exact moment my odometer hit 46.0. 

I pulled myself together and rolled on to the house, noticing I was at something like 46.9 miles. No way I was stopping there. I heaved myself around the neighborhood until my odometer reached 50 miles. That birthday is now just a scant four years away. I need to be ready! 

Mercer's Langston Hall deserves all the happiness in the world

My Saturday morning had already gotten off to a great start in Falls Church, Virginia, my company landing a new client. My girlfriend slash business partner and I began driving to our next stop in Frederick, Maryland. My old friend and former coaching colleague Robert Speers texted me from Atlanta to say that the Mercer Bears were about to take the floor against mighty Duke in the NCAA tournament. I regretted that I couldn't watch the game but I was counting on Robert to keep me updated.

I care about the team from Macon, Georgia for a number of reasons. My dad is a professor of education there and both of my younger brothers attended Mercer. My main reason for following the Bears, though, is point guard Langston Hall -- No. 21 in my program but No. 1 in my heart as the old saying goes. I had the good fortune to coach Langston in basketball and baseball way back when he was a youngster playing in a recreational sports league run by Rehoboth Baptist Church in Decatur, Georgia. Langston was a solid baseball player but he was a silky smooth natural on the hard courts even then. He was one of but two or three players I ever coached that I knew would play college ball some day. He was just that good.

But that's not what made him so special in my book.

Memories started flooding back to me as I added more antiques and collectibles to one of the spaces we rent in antique malls. Robert's text messages lit up my phone as we toiled away. He reported that Mercer was holding its own early on against the Blue Devils. I thought that by itself would make memories for Langston that he could tell his children about some day. How many people who ever play basketball ever get the chance to play in the NCAA tournament against one of the most storied teams in hoops history? 

I toiled away unpacking and stocking. Robert's texts grew more tense. It was late in the game and Mercer was still in it. Then he reported that Mercer had a late lead. This couldn't be happening, I thought. I nearly dropped my phone when the next message informed that the Mercer Bears had pulled off the humongous upset. 

I was stunned.

I raced back home to Silver Spring, Maryland to watch highlights. I flipped from channel to channel and Langston and his teammates were everywhere! ESPN broadcasters were calling out Langston's name as they showed him making one slick pass after another -- including one to a big white guy who became even more open as Langston lead him to the hoop with a one-handed bullet pass.

I laughed out loud and clapped like crazy. I had seen the African-American youth make exactly that kind of pass many times before on the Rehoboth courts. I'll never forget one in particular. Langston pounced on a loose ball on the defensive end of the court and broke toward our goal. Eight players were behind him. Only one other player was heading up the court with him. The other guy was a heavy white kid who lacked athletic graces. He had not scored a point that game and had probably not scored more than a few times all season. 

Langston could have cruised to the easy layup and padded his stats. He dribbled the length of the floor and passed the ball instead. The other kid made a layup that used a lot of glass and metal before falling in. The awkward white kid's face beamed like the sun. All the parents of both teams went nuts in applause. Robert and I went nuts. Our guys went nuts. Everyone in the gym recognized Langston's unselfishness. I doubt Langston remembers that moment now a decade or so later but that one play symbolized Langston's approach to sports: It wasn't about him as an individual; it was about the success of the team.

I attribute that mindset and his mature-beyond-his-years character to Langston himself and to his parents, Fred and Alda Hall. They were among the finest parents I ever met in my coaching days. They did everything right, especially when it came to handling their athletic prodigy's development. Unlike some parents that put all stress and pressure of their unfulfilled dreams and economic aspirations into their child athletes, Fred and Alda gave Langston room to be himself. They let him make his own choices, letting sports be an option instead of an obligation. They cheered him as proud parents, making noise only to cheer and not to criticize. They did not interfere with me and Robert as coaches: They let us coach our way and supported us instead of undermining us. Sports leagues don't give out awards for Most Valuable Parents but they should -- and Fed and Alda Hall should be the first recipients.

Fred and Alda instilled great humility in Langston, too. He was always the best player on any team whose jersey he wore but you never knew it from the way he conducted himself. Langston's intelligence was off the charts as well. He learned offensive and defensive schemes faster than I could teach them. He was a coach on the floor even as a kid.

Langston was tough as nails, too. If memory serves, Langston was on the rough end of my scariest moment as a coach. That year's basketball team was on a training run at Stone Mountain Park. We were all jogging through the trails, hopping over stones and leaping over roots. I heard a loud thud coming from right behind me and turned to see that Langston had crashed head first into the ground. The whole team looked on with the same panic that was on my face. I had never had a player get seriously hurt and I feared that streak was over. Langston popped up, brushed himself off, and walked with us the rest of the way back to the cars. He might have picked up a few bruises but he was ready for tipoff at the next game.

Through it all, Langston made me and Robert better coaches because we constantly had to invent new challenges for him. He always wanted to learn more, work harder. He never let us coast. Honestly, Langston taught us way more than we ever taught him.

And there Langston was on Saturday all over my television. "The Atlantic Sun Conference Player of the Year," the broadcasters kept saying every time they mentioned his name. The Mercer Bears were on every channel. Then CBS cut to a live interview with Coach Bob Hoffman and Langston. I could not believe I was sitting there watching Langston on national television -- and that he was so calm, cool and collected, as if he was on national TV every day. I started clapping and crying and hollering at the TV.

I don't know what the future holds for Mercer against Tennessee on Sunday or for Langston after his college basketball career ends. I do know this: Langston is already a champion of a human being, just like his mom and dad.

Go Bears!

Chris Lancette is a former journalist and an occasional blogger who spends most of his time running Orion's Attic, a Silver Spring, Maryland company that sells antiques and collectibles and conducts estate sales. He can be reached here. 

 

 

Skip the NFL: Pick raspberries instead

I took my NFL diet to another level this Sunday: I skipped opening day completely. 

Turned out to be easier than I thought. More delicious, too.

Probing my hunch that there is life beyond the television on Sundays in the fall, I hopped in my old Mazda Protege and did what I love doing during the rest of the year ... letting the car take me wherever she felt like going. No destination in mind, no ETA on a return. Sometimes the spontaneous day trips last two hours. Others go for up to seventeen. 

It was a beautiful day for a drive and my car headed around the beltway to I-270 North. I know any day I end up on 270 North is going to be a good one. My girlfriend Won-ok and I saw a sign at Exit 16 that read "attractions" and pointed right. The Mazda pulled right and off we went looking for what these unnamed sites in or near Germantown, Maryland might be.

We didn't make it that far.

Our eyes lit up when we passed a hand-made sign pointing to a combination of an estate sale and yard sale. As owners of Orion's Attic -- a growing little side business that sells art, antiques, used furniture and collectibles -- there was no way we could pass that up. We've met the most amazing people at yard sales along the countryside and we have brought home some mighty fine pieces.

"Barbara" had all kinds of things for us to look at. We snagged a couple of pieces of pottery and glass at the first table and then wandered into the basement. I jumped at the chance to buy a kind of lamp I've never seen ... it's like a three-tiered banquet lamp on an extension rod that goes from floor to ceiling. We found some other neat stuff and then had trouble taking our eyes off a pair of turn-of-the-century chairs reupholstered in a deep raspberry-colored fabric. Barbara showed us a picture of her grandparents and told us that they brought the chairs with them from England.

We sat for a spell and contemplated the purchase. The price was right and we knew we would have no trouble making our money back but didn't know what kind of profit might be there -- if we sold them. The chairs were quite comfy so we accepted the offer and figured we'd give them a test-drive at home first.

The purchase prompted an ATM run as it was a cash-only transaction. We stumbled onto a Border's bookstore that was selling every remaining book for 90-percent off. The chain is going out of business, of course, and we quickly filled a bag.

We returned to pay for the chairs and got lucky again. With about one-fourth of an inch to spare, both chairs fit in my car and spared us a return trip.

No question where we were headed next. Though we saw no sign from the main road, we passed a small one pointing to Butler's Orchard en route to the estate sale. Any orchard has to have some scrumptious stuff ready for sale, right?

Oh yes.

We arrived in plenty of time to pick fresh raspberries. The 15-cent cardboard container wouldn't do, either. We had to have the $1.50 souvenir bucket so we had a keepsake long after the fresh fruit was gone. We drove along a winding, gravel-and-dirt path to the raspberries. Their unmistakable sweet scent wafted over us as soon as we got out of the car.

I don't know how much time passed while we were in the field picking a few pounds of the treat right off the vines. Patches of blue sky sat atop some of the rolling hills stretching toward the horizon; a few gentle rain drops came in from behind others. I stood there for a moment breathing in the raspberries, feeling the sun and rain alternatively grace my skin, and munching on an occasional berry before it reached the bucket.

I was shocked to realize I did not miss the NFL one bit. 

My litany of reasons for reducing my pro football intake is indeed a long one. Atop the list? All-talk, no-action commissioner Roger Goodell never really punishes any player no matter how heinous or stupid his crime. You can get drunk and kill a man while driving, bring a loaded gun into a New York club, do as you wish with an under-age college girl and torture dogs for years on end and barely miss a game once you're out of jail. It's tough to stomach a league that allows the likes of Donte Stallworth, Plaxico Burress, Ben Roethlisberger and Michael Vick to star in its ranks.

Then these very same athletes and their colleagues have the audacity to complain they are "under-paid" and induce a lockout in which the owners collapse like a house of cards? (The owners should have thrown away the lockout key for a year. Let the players work a regular job and see how they like that.)

This is clearly a league that deserves less of my time and money. I cut my consumption back about 60 percent last season. Standing there in the sweet air nibbling on raspberries, I knew I was capable of cutting back further.

Half the bucket filled, we headed to the Butler's Orchard market to see what else wanted a ride back to Silver Spring. It didn't take long to fill a small cart. I already had ribs marinating back home so buying Butler's Smoky Rib Sauce was a no-brainer. We also loaded up on the orchard's jams, preserves, candy, pears and vegetables. 

Getting back on the interstate to head home, I didn't even turn the radio to a sports station to find out whether my favorite teams won or lost. I simply tuned in a country radio station that two Redskins fans told us about at a stoplight on the way to the ATM. 

I know I won't be able to go cold turkey on the NFL season but the antique and culinary delights give me hope for a more serious football diet. I just finished the lip-smacking BBQ ribs, chasing them with a bowl of raspberries for dessert.

There is an autumn world beyond the NFL out there. I'll see what part of it I can find next Sunday, too. 

 

 

 

 

No one should die from a foul ball

A 39-year-old firefighter named Shannon Stone in Arlington, Texas, takes his 6-year-old son to see a Rangers game and to try to catch a foul ball -- a dream shared by fathers and sons that's as old as the game itself. Texas outfielder Josh Hamilton picks up such a ball and, like every other outfielder in minor and major league baseball, gently tosses it up into the stands.

Dad reaches out for the ball, loses his balance, falls over the rail and dies.

His last words before he lost consciousness? Somebody has to get his son, who's up in the stands all by himself.

The boy lost his father because his dad was simply reaching for a baseball. 

I can't begin to imagine the eternal nightmare the tragedy will be for the child. His dad was just trying to put a smile on his face. That's all. Shannon Stone wasn't drunk, wasn't doing anything stupid, wasn't trying to make SportsCenter with some play of the day. He was just trying to catch a gently tossed ball for his son -- a memory they could treasure for a lifetime.

Yet a man who has exited burning buildings carrying human beings in his hands dies catching a baseball.

How does this child ever learn to live with this pain? How will he not be reminded of it almost every minute of the day, especially in Texas, where there's baseball around all the time. You've got Ranger games, televised games on satellite and cable every night, and Little League through high school games in every town. America's past time killed a boy's father.

How sick of an irony is that?

How will Hamilton not be scarred for life? How will he not break out in a cold sweat every time he picks up a foul ball? It wasn't his fault. It was just a one in a billion freak accident.

And the fans who watched the firefighter-father fall to the concrete -- how will they ever get over that? 

If the father had a heart attack or got struck by lightning -- or died trying to rescue someone -- that I might at least be able to comprehend. Those horrors are within the realm of imagination. But this -- it's simply preposterous. There are a lot of ways to get killed in a baseball stadium. A Potomac Nationals player was lucky to survive a blow to the head.  It's a blessing that screaming line drives over the dugouts don't hurt more fans than they do. But a tossed ball? 

I'm still sick.

I can't stop thinking about it. My love for baseball runs deep. The game has given me great joy in my life -- from going to games with my dad when I was a kid to coaching kids once I grew up. My girlfriend and I spend as much time as we can traveling to minor league games now.

I remember a famous game I went to with my dad. You've heard of this one. It was Aug. 1, 1978 in Atlanta. I was 9-years-old and a huge fan of our loveable loser Braves. A then beloved guy named Pete Rose was chasing Joe DiMaggio's record of 56 consecutive games with a hit. Rose was at 44. I loved him and the Big Red Machine, too. We wanted to see him reach 45 and continue his quest.

Rose hits a foul ball to the right side between first base and the outfield. (If anyone has that game on TV, I want to see it.) The ball is coming directly toward me and my dad. We both stand up, extend our arms. My heart is thumping. I'm envisioning my greatest souvenir -- a foul ball hit by Charlie Hustle during "the streak". The ball continues directly toward us as if sent on purpose. It's mine ... until the ball hits a low-hanging electrical wire and bounces to someone else.

I was crushed. We had that sucker.

Rose went on to strike out in his last at-bat and the streak ended. I've still got the ticket stub to this day.

I've also still got my dad.

 

 

Washington Post's Tracee Hamilton wrong on Michael Vick

I sent the following letter to Washington Post columnist Tracee Hamilton today in response to her disgraceful piece supporting Michael Vick. I'm not much of a Redskins fan but I would cheer for them mightily if I were to watch their game against the Eagles. I have a conscience, though, and thus will not be watching Vick.

Here's my letter:

Ms. Hamilton,

I've never been more disgusted by anything the Washington Post has published than I am by your vile and morally inexcusable piece on Michael Vick today. While I have always enjoyed your insight, even when I don't agree with you, you crossed a line today. I've lost my respect for you and will never read another piece you write.

Any fan or reporter who cheers for Michael Vick should be ashamed of themselves as human beings. As an Atlanta native who has followed his career closely, I am well aware that he was a bad guy long before he ever got caught dogfighting. He was a thug in college, a terrible teammate in Atlanta who blamed everyone but himself for losses and someone who made the whole city look bad every time he opened his mouth.

Michael Vick is not getting a second chance. He's on about his 20th. The NFL, which I'm growing to hate despite being a life-long fan, should be ashamed for letting him back in the league with essentially no punishment -- and Commissioner Goodell should be fired for his reprehensible get-soft-on-crime tenure. The Eagles should be ashamed for hiring him. And you and everyone else who believes a completely unrepentant Michael Vick is worthy of applause or support are people who should cringe when you look in the mirror.

Potomac Nationals' Brian Peacock hospitalized, game goes on -- sort of

Woodbridge, VA -- The crack of the ball hitting Potomac Nationals hitter Brian Peacock in the head reverberated through the stadium as he collapsed to the ground this afternoon. Staff from the Washington Nationals Single A affiliate raced out to him, immediately flashing a sign to the press box to call an ambulance. 

The young man who a split second earlier was thinking only of increasing his team's seventh inning 5-3 lead remained motionless. Fans tried to catch their breath. The sound was so loud that you could feel everyone wondering, fearing, that Peacock had been hurt badly.

A few minutes later, Peacock moved his feet. But nothing else. And he would not move again for some time. A seemingly interminable span. Fans nervously looked checked the time on their cell phones wondering what was taking emergency responders so long to arrive. It's a minor league baseball park in the middle of a youth league baseball complex on a busy Sunday. Surely emergency personnel must be in the neighborhood.

The more the clock ticked and the longer the 25-year-old from Palmetto, Florida, remained on his back, the more anxious teammates and fans became.

The Salem Red Sox pitcher that accidentally hit him was just as rattled: Hard-throwing right-hander Michael Lee perched himself on his knees, head down, looking very much like a person praying for a man who was his opponent only a moment ago. Now Peacock was his brother. The game was meaningless. The only thing that mattered to Lee and everyone else in the stadium was the health of the man laying on his back -- his No. 13 jersey covered in red dirt.

A pack of emergency medical technicians finally arrived. They carefully strapped him to a gurney, making sure they made no mistake despite the silent pleas from the crowd imploring them to hurry up. Everyone looked on, hoping that Peacock was not permanently injured ... that what we were all witnessing was not the end of his career and not the end of a fully functional body. Lee certainly was not the only person invoking help from above.

The EMTs placed Peacock on a gurney and lifted him on to a stretcher. Fans strained for a glimpse of his face but could not see it clearly. He was breathing through an oxygen mask. Everyone jumped to their feet, applauding for the young man as if our cheers might somehow give him a boost. "I love you, Brian," a kid called out.

The wounded batter heard the good will, mustering the strength -- and the ability -- to weakly wave his right hand to the crowd. Grown men and women let out tears and sighs of relief.

I wondered how much time would pass before we learned how Peacock is, how his teammates could compose themselves enough to finish the game, and how Lee was going to manage to even reach his catcher's mitt on his next pitches. The second and third questions were answered immediately. Lee was not about to come close to the next batter he faced, leaving a pitch smack in the middle of the plate. The Nationals' hitter, Michael Burgess, smacked a double and drove in two runs to push the lead to 7-3. The intensity of the applause seemed as much for Peacock as for the RBIs.

Somehow, everyone pushed concerns for Peacock aside to get through what was in front of them -- until a medical helicopter landed just behind the stadium during the eighth inning.

I don't know how the players or umpires managed to focus. After a few foul balls sailed over stadium walls toward the helicopter, a fireman came out and asked the umps to stop the game until the chopper could take off. The helicopter promptly cleared stadium air space. The game ended in the top of the ninth on a long fly ball nearly reaching the center field wall. 

The home team had won but no one was much in the mood for celebration. Everyone was thinking about the player who was not there. Team officials said they would provide medical updates on the Potomac Nationals' Web site and Twitter account. One also encouraged people to visit the team's Facebook site to leave messages for Brian so he knew people were pulling for him.

I wouldn't be surprised to learn the Red Sox pitcher is reaching out to him, too. Today, everyone is a National.

The silent beauty of baseball: Deaf team wins first game

I wish I had been there to see it -- a deaf baseball team from Gallaudet University in northeast Washington D.C., winning its first game on Friday. Beating Stevenson University 5-3 for its first Capital Athletic Conference victory in 13 years, the team of mostly underclassmen showed you don't have to be able to hear to pull off the improbable on a baseball diamond. The Bison showed guts, tenacity and perseverance. 

"It has been a learning process for these guys," Coach Curtis Pride told the Washington Post of a team filled with players still new to highly competitive baseball. "I have seen guys make significant improvement since Day One, and they're starting to understand what it takes to win a ballgame. In other words, they are starting to play like real baseball players."

They are also making clear what I've appreciated for a very long time -- the silent beauty of baseball. 

I'm a former youth baseball coach with a thousand stories about the impact that playing the game can make on boys and young men. I know that beauty starts on the diamond. That's where under-skilled players can work hard and get better, building a confidence and sense of self-worth that follows them when they step over the chalk and back into their daily lives. 

My favorite baseball memory of all time is about a young outfielder who approached me after practice one day, told me he recognized he was not very good, and asked if I would be willing to put in extra time with him to help him improve to be at least "average." I was stunned by the 11-year-old's candor. We spent tons of time working together and he got better. He even went on to make a game-saving catch against the best hitter in our league.

I'm sure Coach Pride gets to see moments just like that in his thankless work at Gallaudet University. I would have loved to have seen the looks on his and his players' faces when they recorded the final out on Friday. 

I hope they get to experience a lot more sunny days like that.

I hope they see all the athletic and life skills they're developing by daring to compete against vastly more experienced foes. I hope they observe the unmistakable beauty of watching their team turn a 6-4-3 double play, nail a runner attempting to steal a base, and execute a sacrifice bunt.

I also hope they appreciate that they're coming together as a team and beginning to operate like a finely tuned machine -- even if they can't hear the engine running.

Legg Mason: Even the qualifiers are tennis classics

I headed over to the William HG Fitzgerald Tennis Center off 16th and Kennedy today to catch some early round action at the Legg Mason Tennis Classic. Knowing the best stuff at pro tennis tournaments in the first few rounds is more often found on the side courts than the stadium court, I camped out and watched South African Rick De Voest challenge Uruguay's Pablo Cuevas in a qualifying match.

For those not familiar with the sport, tournaments allow a number of unheralded players to fight their way into the tournament by advancing through, in effect, a pre-tournament. The qualifiers are like boxing matches minus the senseless violence: opponents attack each other with all the strength, stamina and wits they have, hoping to just make into the main draw and have a chance to earn a paycheck ... and get squashed by top players. (Andy Roddick, Marat Safin, Mardy Fish and Tommy Haas, among others, begin play in the next two days.) Want to see athletes pour their guts out? Watch qualifiers.

The 132-ranked Cuevas looked at first glance like he was going to be too much for De Voest, currently sitting at No. 151 in the world. He quickly put De Voest on the defensive with a display of flashy shots and a set of wheels that made it appear there was no ball he could not reach. Yet De Voest, who has scrapped his way into a total of eight regular tournament matches (with a 3-5 record once he gets there), refused to go away. He may have looked more like a neighbor you run into at your your local hardware store than a professional athlete, but he maintained his calm in a match whose sponsor should have been Pepto-Bismol.

The match was perfectly even in the first set tie-breaker, when fans leaned forward waiting to see what microscopic difference was going to separate the two players.

Unfortunately, a terrible call by the chair umpire (the head guy in charge of a match) turned the tide -- the chair over-ruling a line judge's call that a De Voest serve was out -- giving the South African an ace and a key point. Chair umpires are generally like Democratic presidential candidates -- people extremely reluctant to get involved and take a stand. (I at least give the Republicans credit: They may almost always be wrong, but they pick sides.)

To be clear, the serve was out. Way out. So far out that Cuevas didn't bother playing the ball. Yet the ump made the over-rule, Cuevas fell incredulous and became rattled. Umpires make mistakes, too, but it's rare to see an umpire inject himself without being asked, and even more rare to do the injecting when his decision is so off base you wonder what he was looking at. The mark of a good player, though, is one who can overcome obstacles in a match. Good players or teams make plays, I used to say in my coaching days, while losers make excuses.

The bad call in a tie-breaker, however, was a virtual death knell for the first set. There simply is no margin for error in a tie-breaker, and to suffer such a horrible call in that situation is indeed a monumental obstacle to overcome.

Cuevas couldn't recover in the tie-break but came out fighting the second. Calmly, steadily, though, De Voest etched out the tiniest of leads. But Cuevas still managed to earn a few chances to draw even. Four of them, in fact ... four break points on his opponent's serve. When you get to walk up to the teller at the break serve bank four times in one game, you've got to come away with cash on one of them. Cuevas, however, buried one potential winner in the net, over hit another wide, and got out-played on the other two. Opportunity vanquished, the match ended with De Voest walking away with a 7-6, 6-4 victory.

For De Voest, the win by a whisker means he lives on and has a chance to land a temp job for perhaps a day or two -- or as all qualifying players dream -- another week. Cuevas, on the other hand, will slink back to his hotel likely cursing the umpire who he'll perceive as his excuse for losing the match. If any of his friends filmed the contest, though, he'll see he had his chances to make plays. His chance to be the one who earns a living this week.