"You're a halfback."
     I looked over my shoulder at the empty field behind me.  "Me?" I asked, pointing to my chest.
     "Yes," the coach said again.  "You're a halfback.  Yep, no doubt about it."
     The coach's name was Super Roy.  Someone told me his real name once, but it never stuck.  In my mind he'll always be Super Roy - football coach, mentor, philosopher and role model.  He was the man who made a halfback out of a scrawny, scared little fellow on his first day of pony league practice.  He was the man who shaped my life.
     When I got to practice that day I was a small kid with little athletic experience or skill.  I wondered if I belonged there at all.  When I left I was the team's halfback, and I wondered what Super Roy had seen in me that I didn't see in myself.
     "Are you sure I'm a halfback?" I asked him the next day.
     "Let me see," he said, standing back to have a good glance at me.  "Yep.  You're a halfback.  Might as well get used to it."
     "Okay," I said, puzzled but beginning to accept the idea, strange as it seemed.
     Later that day we started running plays.  Time after time the quarterback put the ball right in my hands.  Me, the nerdy fellow who had to be reminded how many points a touchdown was worth.  I expected to go all season without touching the ball.  I expected to be a bench warmer, and now the ball was in my hands - literally.
     Super Roy had a routine he did every day.  As practice wound down he would pick one of the players to step forward.  The player had to recite a quote Super Roy had given him the day before.  It was a very important moment in practice.  No one wanted to forget his quote in front of the whole team.
     After practice was over one day, Super Roy summoned me.  "Your turn tomorrow," he said.  "Ready for your quote?"
     "Okay," I said, straining in deep concentration.  "I'm ready."
     "Well, here it is: 'It's not the size of the man you play, it's how you play the man.'  Got it?"
     "Yes, Coach."
     Super Roy winked at me and gave me a pat on the shoulder.
     The next day my mind played like a broken record.  "It's not the size of the man you play, it's how you play the man."  I repeated it to myself in the morning while I waited for the bus.  I wrote it down time and time again during breaks in school, and all during practice I mumbled the quote to myself after each hit, just to be sure it hadn't been knocked out of my head.
     When the time came I stepped forward proudly.  "It's not the size of the man you play," I told my teammates, "it's how you play the man."
     Super Roy gave me another smile and a wink.
     I remembered my quote - I always will.
     Years later I came to understand the genius of Super Roy's methods.  He was the kind of coach who brought out the greatness in his players.  He was a coach who understood what sports can do to shape character.
     That year a scrawny little kid learned to believe in himself, to learn there is no problem so big he can't handle.  It was a lesson that shaped my life.
     Long after my pony league days were over I became a teacher at a school for troubled boys.  Super Roy's lessons were never far from my mind, and I borrowed from him freely.  Every day there was a new quote for a young man to remember, a quote made just for him.  And I always looked for the good in my students that they never saw in themselves.
     There was a young man in my class who had a gifted mind and a superb voice for public speaking.  One day he gave a great answer to a question I'd posed to the class.  "Good point, Mr. President," I told him.
     After class he stopped me in the hallway. "Mr. Heisler, why did you call me Mr. President?"
     "Because you are a president.  It's just a matter of time.  Might as well get used to it."
     I gave him a wink and a pat on the shoulder.  Super Roy would have been proud.

     Sports.  A six-letter word for failure.  Maybe it wasn't so in your dictionary, but that was my definition.  I was a skinny, gangly girl growing up in the seventies.
     Sports at our Catholic grade school consisted of taking a walk around the parking lot during recess.  As we got older, we would don mustard-colored gym suits and flat sneakers and do sit-ups on the cold gym floor.  There were no dance classes, aerobics or swimming lessons.
     Then came high school and sports got ugly.  "Mr. Luther" was a swaggering little man who felt that teaching girls was his punishment for having been evil in his previous life.
     First sport: baseball.  Mr. Luther's practices all began the same: "Now listen up.  These are the rules: you do what you are told.  You goof off, you answer to me.  Y'understand?  Any questions?"  Stony silence.  "All right, you pansy girls, get running - NOW!  If it's not too much trouble," he sneered.
     Nowhere in "the rules" were there any directions on how to play the game.  You were supposed to know that.  If not, you were stupid.  For all his years of teaching, he didn't know that children do not learn without being taught.
     Mr. Luther put a bat in my hand and barked, "Don't you even know how to hold a bat?"  I was too shy to explain that it was my first time.  I held the bat out, hoping miraculously that it would hit his fastball and not the air.  No miracle here.  Mr. Luther shook his head in disgust.  I didn't make his A team.
     Catching practice was worse.  I was finally relegated to right field.  That was fine with me.  I stayed out there and prayed that no balls would come my way.  I squinted into the sun, checking my watch, just waiting for it to be over.  And I waited throughout high school for gym class and all sports to be over.
     Leaving high school meant leaving those memories of failure.  Or so I thought.
     Fast-forward twenty-some years, to another day, another town.  My son was six and he wanted to play baseball.
     Now whether you admit it or not, we all relive our past through our children.  Their experiences trigger our own pain—things we thought we had buried years ago.  I vowed my son would not suffer the same fate I had.
     First day of practice and I was ready for the coach - whoever he was.  No way would he destroy my son's confidence before it had a chance to grow.  I was ready for battle.  If you ever saw a mama bear with her cub, you'll know how I felt.  The coach had no idea what he was in for if he messed with my kid's head.
     The coach walked over and addressed the parents.  "Now here's the team rules."  My heart clutched.  Oh no, not again.  Did all men have to say that?  The coach continued, "This is a noncompetitive league - we're not keeping score.  Anyone who yells at the kids will be asked to leave.  Remember, the purpose of this game is to let the kids have some fun."
     I was stunned!  What did he say?  Did I hear right?  Had coaches really changed so much?  Or was it just their line for the parents?  I wasn't about to let down my guard just yet.
     My son came up to bat, and I held my breath.  The coach slowly pitched to him - right over the plate.  He pitched, and pitched and pitched.  After ten pitches with no hit, he handed the ball to the assistant coach.  My heart froze as he walked over to my child.  Oh no, here comes the lecture, I thought, willing myself to stay seated.
     The coach walked behind my son and put his arms around him.  He signaled for a pitch.  Together, the coach and my son hit the ball.  My kid let out a whoop and went flying to first base.  Parents were cheering, and the coach was smiling from ear to ear.  "ATTABOY!" he yelled.
     By the end of the game, everyone who got a hit was allowed to run all the bases.  With the coach's help, everyone did get a hit.  Home runs for all!  The kids were ecstatic.  They went home that night pumped up with the thrill of playing baseball.
     I came back for each practice, marveling at the patience and gentleness of the coach.  Some moms were obviously frustrated with the league.  One ex-cheerleader was frantically trying to keep score so she could prove her child had won and was the star.  She was not happy.  Someone had changed all the rules on her.
     By the end of the season, all the kids had improved their skills.  And the next year, they would learn more of the "official" rules.  But for that first season, they learned how to love baseball.
     For all the nostalgia for "the good old days," we forget that some things are better now.  And therein lies the hope for our children.
     Thank you, Coach, for giving my son - and me - the love of baseball.