Pitch...Puff...Pitch...Puff

"Grass, Dirt, and Smoke: The Reflections of A Little Leaguer." This would be the title I would give my childhood memoirs.

Baseball was my life as a kid. I loved everything about it, especially the smells. Pine tar on my black Louisville Slugger. Oil on my blonde leather glove (Rawlings, of course). Dirt on the leather ball (again, Rawlings). Sweat in my cap. Freshly cut grass. And, the cherry-scented smoke aromatically rising up from my coach's pipe.

Dave Finton was my favorite coach ever. Today, I learned that he passed away. My heart sank for his family. And then it soared as I reflected on his life. Dave was a common man who worked hard for my home state's Department of Transportation. The tall southpaw seemed to have supernatural endurance when throwing batting practice to his "boys of summer" who donned the maroon and white pinstripe uniform of Bob's Finer Foods. As impressed as I was with Coach Finton's pitching stamina, I was even more impressed with his ability to simultaneously puff on his pipe, which stuck out from the right side of his mouth, clenched firmly between his teeth.

It was all so rhythmic and aromatic...Pitch...Puff...Pitch...Puff...Pitch...Puff...like music and incense.

RIP Coach Finton. You stood tall in my life. You gave me confidence at an early age that I could face challenges and rise above my limitations with hard work. With your even temper, you taught me that patience and kindness wear well with people of all ages. I drew upon your example when called upon to coach my own little leaguers. You made my summers, Dave. And, those summers helped to make me much of the man that I am today.