Mr. Weatherby

It all started when my father and I had had one of the famous “bathroom” conversations. Serious conversations with my dad happened in one of two places: his home office or in the bathroom. Both locations had some negative characteristics.

Most times, when my father called one of the children to make an appearance in either place, it was not a pleasant experience. When summoned to his office one could assume the summoned was in deep poo. The was no doubt that the poo was about to hit the fan. Unfortunately, I hold the family record for office lectures. I guess you could call me the McConnell Poo Champion. Lucky me. All of the office lectures followed a similar pattern. Dad calmly invited you in and told you to have a seat. I would have preferred to stand so I could dodge more freely and perhaps, if necessary, sprint for the door. When dad started with the phrase, “Now I’m not going to get mad,” you could put him on the clock. Within three minutes his voice would be raised, his face bright red and a vein on the left side of his forehead would be bulging out about one inch and throbbing dramatically. From then on I never heard a word he said. All of my attention was on the throbbing vein: wondering if this was the day it was going to burst right before my eyes. Was my bad behavior going to be responsible for my father’s untimely death? Would I be saddled forever with the memory of watching his head explode: seeing the him, me and the office walls covered in blood; knowing that when I called for the ambulance it would be the first time he wouldn’t be complaining about me tying up the phone? I learned early, since I was no longer paying any attention, when there was a pregnant pause the correct response was to say, “Yes sir.” There is no telling what all I agreed to during those lectures, but saying “Yes sir,” probably saved my life a number of times.

The man-to-man, this-is-information-you-need-to grow-up-to-be-a-man, talks took place in the bathroom. I know what you’re thinking: it was a large family and the bathroom was to only place we could find privacy. You would be thinking that we dragged small chairs into those limited quarters for a short chat. You would be wrong. We met in the bathroom because that was where dad spent lots of time and he hated wasting time. He would sit on the toilet (Not with the top down – he was doing his business.) and I would sit on the side of the tub. Mine was an uncomfortable seat made profoundly miserable due to the tub having sliding shower doors that were held in place by a one-inch tall metal track. So the feckless student was force to sit on the track which pressed into one’s thighs, cutting off the circulation to the lower legs. Slowly all feeling was lost and visions of amputation creeped into one’s mind. My dad didn’t believe in short talks. He could go on for what seemed decades. At the conclusion of a bathroom talk the tub sitter slowly stood, staggered out of the bathroom and did an impressive impression of a pitifully drunk person for about half an hour. The siblings would gather to harass and laugh.

One early spring day I announced to no one in particular that I would like to follow my big brother into Little League baseball. The word circulated through the household and pretty soon I was summoned to the bathroom for the talk. Now the talk lasted approximately two hours but I can sum it up in a very few words. Don’t quit. If you start this thing you are NOT going to quit. Quitters never win. McConnell’s aren’t quitters. Perhaps you noted a theme to the talk. According to dad, I was into Little League baseball for the long haul. As dad talked I nodded my head, felt my legs lose all feeling and began to wonder if I would be able to walk, much less play baseball.

A few weeks later I gathered with several hundred 9-12-year-old kids for Little League tryouts. These were the old days where not everyone made the team and got a trophy. We kids spent a Saturday going through skill drills under the observation of the coaches. That evening the coaches gathered, each with a certain number of points, and bid on the players they wanted for their team. Sunday they called the fortunate kids who had been chosen. No call – no play. That Sunday I got a call and informed I was on the Kiwanis team and when and where to report to practice.

I really don’t remember how practice went. I have a vague memory of running to first base, tripping over the bag and sprawling face first into the turf. My guess is the first base run was not my only screw-up that day because the coach called me that evening to let me know I had been cut from the team. I was devastated. Weeping, I ran from the house and sought refuse in my hiding place; a small cave I had been exploring. I was crushed. I sat there sobbing for what seemed hours. My heartache was short lived as the very next day I man named Ed Weatherby called to let me know I had been picked up by his team, Lincoln Income.

Since I was ten years old, and not the sharpest knife in the drawer, it didn’t occur to me that there was something fishy about this deal. First, my dad was the chair of the St. Matthews Little League board of directors and could, and probably did, pull some strings. Secondly, the team I had been picked up by was sponsored by the company my dad worked for (Was vice president of.). I was young and dumb and just happy to be playing ball. Not that I’m slow but it was a few decades before I made the obvious connections that led to my good fortune.

At that first practice I met Mr. Weatherby. I’m guessing he was in his late 20’s, tall and handsome. And he was serious about baseball. I was coming to that conclusion by how often and how hard we practiced: four evenings a week, three hours at a time. We learned about hitting, fielding, base running, bunting, sliding, how to get hit by a ball with the least damage done. I left every practice dirty, exhausted and drenched in sweat. I ached in places I hadn’t known I had.  I was having a blast.

I practiced at home every day with my brother Bob. Bob was a year ahead of me in the system and he was a star. Over his pitching career from Little League through high school, he pitched several no hitters. He threw a fastball like I had never seen before or since. And he was just wild enough to be intimidating. His curve ball broke to the left and dropped like it had fallen off a table. He could even throw a knuckle ball. At the start of a game, when Bob walked out to the mound the opposing team dropped their heads and moaned. Since Bob was such a great pitcher, everyone assumed I would be too. They were wrong. My fastball looked like a Whiffle ball thrown against the wind. My curveball spun some but never broke.

Being left handed, my choice of positions on the team was limited. The first game I played in Mr. Weatherby put me in right field (The place where he figured I could do the least damage.). He was wrong. It seems I was depth perception challenge and could not judge a fly ball. Fortunately, I was so bad at judging a ball I never got near enough to have one hit me. My career in right field lasted less than a full game. The coach put me out of my misery and took me out after just a couple of innings. It wasn’t long until I found my place on the team at first base. I loved it and became very good at that position.

When I say that Mr. Weatherby was serious about baseball, I mean SERIOUS. Opening day was a big deal at St. Matthews Little League. We had two perfectly manicured fields with press boxes, bleachers and a fabulous concession stand. Remember, this is back in the 50’s when kid’s sports were not a religious experience. On opening day all of the teams from both the American and National leagues gathered in perfect formation on the field to participate in the ceremonies. Local dignitaries were introduced, the opening pitch was thrown and the local TV sports guy, Uncle Ed Kallay, gave a speech. Ed Kallay worked for WAVE TV in Louisville and was Kentucky’s first television sports caster. He got the moniker, Uncle Ed, from hosting a popular children’s cartoon show called Funny Flickers. It was a huge honor to have Ed Kallay to be the opening day speaker.

I don’t remember the entire speech but I do remember Mr. Weathersby’s response to part of it. Near the end of his short speech Mr. Kallay said, “Just remember kids, you can’t win them all.” At that point, Mr. Weatherby, who was standing at parade rest in front of the team, looked at us over his right shoulder and said, just loud enough for us to hear, “Like hell you can’t.” I remember thinking, “Oh, crap, this is going to be an interesting season.”

By the way, Uncle Ed was wrong.

Copyright © 2016, William T. McConnell, All Rights Reserved

Bill McConnell is the Interim Minister at Norwood Christian Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, and is a Church Transformation consultant and a Christian Leadership Coach. He is a frequent speaker at Church Transformation events. His latest book on church transformation is DEVELOPING A SIGNIFICANT CHURCH and is available at Westbow Press.

He can be contacted @ bill45053@gmail.com. Connect with him on Facebook @ William T. McConnell or on Twitter @billmc45053 or visit his Amazon Author Page @ Amazon