Today is Thursday, October 27th, 2005; Karen's Korner #659

A good "Chicken Soup for the Soul" story, in light of the World Series ending and then moving on to wrestling season. Pretty lengthy but worth the read if you have the time:
 
You Make the Difference
By Jack Hannah

     Being told by the second doctor that my career in professional baseball was over was a mule-kick in the gut.  I was coming off my best year in AAA ball, one step from the "big show."  I led the league in most appearances (fifty-two) and had an ERA of 3.30 for the season.  There was talk that I would be called up before the end of the season.  Every day was a day of anticipation and happiness...except for the time I spent with the team doctor and orthopedic specialists.  In those visits, the talk was about "hanging it up."  Two surgeries hadn't fixed the problem in my throwing arm.  I was dependent on more frequent and bigger doses of cortisone.  My twenty-year dream was ending in a blaze of disappointment and self-pity.
     I returned home to Fresno, California, morose and petulant. Linda, my wife of two and one-half years, wasn't fazed by the end of baseball; she only wanted me to be happy again.  She reminded me that God was in charge of our lives, that we had lived wonderful lives thus far by trusting him and we should continue to trust that something better was ahead.  She suggested I apply for a teaching job, asking the question, "Why don't you devote your life to helping young people develop theirs?"
     Noble idea, certainly, but it didn't strike me as equivalent to the excitement of pro ball.  Feeling forced to do something, I applied for the job and got it.
     Still chafing from self-inflicted brooding, I reported to work and, not surprisingly, was asked to coach three sports - football and baseball, in which I was experienced and felt confident, and wrestling, about which I knew zero, zip, zilch.  I might have been able to plead my way out of the wrestling assignment, but I didn't even try.  Feeling glum, I chose to view it as fate twisting on me again, forcing me to "take my medicine."  Only later would I see that God's hand was guiding.
     I knew I couldn't fool the young kids who turned out for the wrestling team.  The greenest one of them knew a ton more about wrestling than I did.  So I told the truth: the school didn't have the money to hire a bona fide wrestling coach; I was it, and I would need their help.
     The boys accepted their plight better than I expected.  They instituted a system in which the better wrestlers taught the newer guys the moves.  My contribution was rounding up a nationally ranked talent, Ed Davies, from a nearby university to assist me, promising him half my pay.
     Between telling them the truth at the start and being willing to split my pay to bring in some help, the team right away showed their appreciation.  We formed a good group - energetic, focused, learning at every turn - but only one wrestler, Alan Katuin, qualified for the biggest match of the season.
     Alan's opponent was Major Edwards, an undefeated, more experienced wrestler from a larger school.  Both were known for their outstanding physical conditioning and overall ability, but Edwards was favored to win by a pin; he was simply more experienced.
     Alan was motivated, intelligent and focused.  Quiet by nature, he seldom spoke during the prematch preparations in the locker room.  Thus, I was surprised when he came to me before the Edwards match.  "Where is Coach Davies?" he asked.
     "He had an emergency," I said, "and won't be able to be here."  Feeling insecure, I added, "But he believes in you, as I do."
     An official poked his head in the locker room.  "Ready?" he said.  "You're up."
     We were ushered into the gymnasium - packed to the rafters, dimly lit, a spotlight keyed on the mat.  My guts turned to ice.  I hadn't felt such a rush of adrenaline since pitching a four-hit shutout against the number-one-ranked USC Trojans in a NCAA regional championship.  The fourteen strikeouts that day didn't mean more than Alan's match today.
     Suddenly, Alan stopped, grabbed my forearm, and in his soft, calm manner said, "Coach, do you think I can win?  Have you got any advice?"
     I stood speechless for what seemed a long time.  "Alan," I said, knowing now was no time to start lying, "you know more about wrestling than I do.  You know that.  But I know your heart.  I believe in you.  If you wrestle as you always have, you can win."
     What ensued was the match of the tournament.  The crowd was in it from the start, making a din, adding to the excitement.  Alan lost three to two.
     I was an emotional wreck.  I felt, as did most of the audience, that the referee had failed to award points to Alan because Edwards, after gaining the lead, wisely employed a tactic known as "stalling."  I felt I should have been able to give Alan some tactical advice that would have helped, but I couldn't.
     As the referee closed the match with the traditional raising of the victor's arm, I felt another mule-kick in the gut.  It didn't subside as I watched Alan go over to Edwards and congratulate him.  The loss could have made Alan bitter, but he showed no resentment, no sour grapes.
     He then walked over to me and said, "Thank you, Coach."  No apology, no excuse; just a firm handshake and the look of a winner in his eyes.  I felt tears welling in mine.  I became afraid I would embarrass him if I showed such strong emotion.
     This was Alan's only defeat of the season.  In the days to come, I watched him closely.  He never brooded.  He was a role model for everyone on the team, including his rookie coach.
     Alan continued to gain both strength and "mat smarts," and became the dominant wrestler in the central section in his senior year.  He went on to Fresno State University, where he continued to impress his opponents and coaches with his exemplary character and superb skills.
     What Alan did that night - extending his hand to me with a sincere "Thank you, Coach," even in a loss— - lit a fire in my belly that still burns today, thirty-three years later.  His example inspired me to commit to coaching, to accept the challenges, as well as the rewards, of making a difference in people's lives.
     The experience transformed my life by showing me the direct impact one can make.  There have been low times, sure, mostly when I let the memory of a lost dream rise up like foul smoke, clouding the view of what I can do to make a difference.  These lapses are short-lived, never close to blowing the flame out.  I just remember Alan Katuin's grace and maturity.
     God brought to me a young man of character whose unerring sense of what is important guided me to healthy living again - a life of giving, of making a difference.
     All I can say, and do say every day, is "Thank you, Linda.  Thank you, Alan.  Thank you, Lord."


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