As you might imagine, I’ve been attending Mountville Indians baseball games for quite some time – long enough to even know what a suicide squeeze is; which is quite an accomplishment since I spend almost as much time people-watching at games as I do paying attention to what’s happening on the field.

At last night’s game I was in full people-watching mode, and I couldn’t help but notice lots of familiar faces among the spectators – former players, parents of former players, and yes, even grandparents of former players.

Now, I know Indians baseball games can sometimes be pretty exciting, but surely, I thought, these people must have more important things to do on a warm, spring evening. What brings them here? The kid who played two years ago, and his mom and sister; a grandpa whose grandson was on the team at least three years ago; the former player who is now a high school junior and has come back this year to help coach the Indians (his mom and little sister were there too). Then at the end of the game, the umpire strode toward me and tilted his mask up to say hello – revealing a now-adult’s face that had once been that of 12-year old Mountville Indian. There they all were, along with others just like them, reconnecting with a time and to experiences in their lives that both Bob and I hope will always hold a special place in their hearts.

Despite the incredible amount of snow that fell on Lancaster County this year (including the two or so inches that we got today!), spring will not be denied. She will come, at least as a date on the calendar, if not with sun-filled skies, crocus blooms, and robin songs. And I know that she’s surely here when Bob is later coming home in the evenings, and later staying up at night – doing “baseball things.”

It’s a time of year Bob and I both love. The thrill of meeting a fresh crop of kids and parents; of grooming a new team – eager, maybe a little apprehensive, always excited. Oh, the things they will learn; the places they will go. As I update the tournament schedule on the website, I’m already looking forward to the season with great anticipation. Hello spring. Let the games begin!

Each year as the season progresses, I enjoy observing glimmering configurations of small gold stars evolve into personalized and unique works of art on the Indians’ caps. Player’s jersey numbers are often the first recognizable figures to emerge. And by the time the annual team picnic rolls around at the end of the season, small constellations – arbitrary formations of stars perceived as figures or designs; a gathering of brilliant things, according to Wikipedia – miraculously have burst to life within twelve individual baseball cap galaxies. (Among the components that make up galaxies are stars, dust, and some mysterious element called “dark matter,” so I like this analogy.)

Back in the days when the season was only a twenty-something game commitment, one of my jobs as coach’s wife was to embed the stars into the players’ caps after each game. Like clockwork, players lined up to request their customized “star placements.” And I’d insert star prongs into caps, bending prong after prong after prong backwards on the inside of the caps until my fingers nearly bled.  Later, I got smart and used a thimble. I decided it was time to resign my “chief star-inserter” position when the seasons grew to sometimes upwards of fifty games. I now happily have been replaced by a much more efficient system – players’ parents! (Thank you to all of you for sacrificing your fingers and sparing mine! May I suggest thimbles?)

I’m a big fan of the stars. I like what they represent. I like the designs the kids make with them. It’s fun to watch. But I especially enjoy watching the entwined universes of each player’s skills, character, and baseball cap galaxy simultaneously grow. It’ a beautiful thing!

For 51 weeks of the year it sits silent, idle in an honorary spot on a shelf with other Mountville Indians memorabilia. The Norwegian-made cowbell’s distinctive clang has only rung out one glorious week of each of the past 12 years. And even then, its heavy iron casing coated with brass recycled from spent Norwegian military practice range ammunition cartridges, only makes contact with the bell’s hefty metal clapper under certain circumstances.

The official U.S. Olympic ski team bell was a prize I won for getting the most answers correct on a trivia quiz of some sort at a seminar. Though handcrafted, the cowbell is probably pretty ordinary by Norwegian cowbell standards, but I’ve always admired how it looks, how it sounds and how it feels tucked snuggly in the palm of my hand. When I won it, I couldn’t imagine what on earth I would do with such a thing? Shove it in a closet, re-gift it, let the grandkids drive us crazy with it?

I can’t recall for sure, but I think the bell may have come into my possession around the same time the Indians were making their inaugural trek to Cooperstown. It must have been serendipity because the cowbell almost immediately found its purpose in Cooperstown and has been fulfilling that purpose ever since.

The bell is among the first items I check off my Cooperstown packing list each year. And unless silenced by edict of a “grumpire,” it rings out every time an Indian strikes out a batter, makes an amazing diving catch, steals home, turns a double play; or when the team exits the field – win or lose (but longer and harder for a win), and as an Indian rounds the bases on a homerun. But only in Cooperstown.

Over the years, some have asked if I take the cowbell elsewhere; to Hershey hockey games perhaps? Nope. The New Era Tournament? Ditto. I’ve been tempted. But then I’m reminded that even simple things take on great value when they’re intentionally held back, reserved for a special time or place. I want this ordinary bell to be something special – to only ring out during one extraordinary week of the year, in one extraordinary place, for one extraordinary bunch of kids as they accomplish many extraordinary feats. So, that’s why 358 days of the year the bell sits silently on the shelf waiting for its next defining moment.

If you’re a fan of local baseball and are from Lancaster County (PA) or have lived in Pennsylvania Dutch Country for very long, you probably understand the allure of the New Era Tournament. Lights (games under the lights). Cameras (local newspaper coverage). Action (intense competition). For Lancaster County Youth Baseball League section-one players 11 years old and up – this is The Big Dance!

And although the format has changed a little this year, the anticipation, excitement and memories surrounding this prestigious county baseball championship tourney remain as perennial as the Mountville VFW’s grass infield.

Bob has led the Indians to seven of their eight New Era Tournament championships – including a three-peat – and three runner-up finishes. And not surprising to anyone who knows him well, he has a remarkable memory of each game – play-by-play! My recall is somewhat less remarkable. I remember a smattering of moments from a handful of games that blend together to make one big, happy New Era memory. Others have memories of the New Era too. Just this weekend, Bob and I bumped into two 1950s New Era alums who freely recounted their own tournament memories with all the wide-eyed enthusiasm the 11- and 12-year-old Indians who will take the field tonight to play in the New Era must be feeling.

So, no matter the outcome of tonight’s game and if history holds true, this is sure to be a night these kids will always remember too!

When I hear “I got it! I got it!” at a youth baseball game, I almost instinctively hold my breath – and sometimes I even close my eyes. There’s just something about a wide-eyed kid running full throttle, yelling at the top of his or her lungs, face flush to the sky, glove wide open that makes me, well – a little uneasy. I desperately want to hear “thwack … yeah!” not “thunk … aw!” a few seconds after, “I got it! I got it!” And plenty of times, to my delight, I do.

I love those times. I love seeing the kid beaming ear-to-ear, the coaches whapping their hands together, teammates fist-pumping into the air. It’s those other times, the “thunk…aw” ones, I hate. What do you say, how do you act when someone puts it all out there, commits 110% in front of God and country,  and then – “thunk …aw?” 

The all too familiar “nice try” or “that’s alright” don’t seem as encouraging or confidence-instilling to me as saying something like, “next time!”

When a kid (or anyone) commits to something – especially so publicly, they need to know that others believe they really can do it; if not this time, the next, or the next, or maybe even the next. “Its’ alright” and “nice try” make me feel like it really didn’t matter if they succeeded in whatever they were attempting – as if no one really expected them to anyway.

“Next time!” Now that’s something that can help someone muster up the courage to try again and again, and better yet, can give them the boost of confidence they may need to believe that eventually they will indeed succeed.

Over the years, many people have told Bob how, as little boys, their kids “dreamed” of one day becoming a Mountville Indian. They looked forward to it like Christmas; worked hard at improving their skills, sometimes at the expense of not playing other sports; hoping it would pay off and they’d make the team when they became old enough.

It’s humbling. It’s overwhelming. So much riding on being an Indian, so much disappointment if they don’t make the team. Such a responsibility.

In the past few weeks we’ve heard about two young men, now in their late teens or early twenties, describing to others in great detail their experiences as an Indian. Neither was on the team.

On one hand this makes me very sad for these young men. On the other hand, it reminds me what an awesome privilege it is to be a Mountville Indian. For one or two short summer seasons, each kid who wears an Indian uniform has a coveted opportunity. It is not an experience to be taken for granted – by the players, parents or coaches. Indian players are living the dream, one many others are only able to dream about having lived.

Seth, Nick, Ryan, Cole, Kenny, Ryan, CJ, Christian, Joe-Joe, Ty, C-Dub, Adam – you inspire me!

Last week at the Sports at the Beach Tournament, you took on a Goliath – a much bigger and, by some measures, a stronger team. You were expected to lose – and by some measures (namely the score) you did. But the two numbers that fall on either side of a dash only tell part of any game’s story. In many very important ways, you won that game.

You won by showing us the importance of respecting, but not fearing an opponent. You won by believing in yourselves and demonstrating confidence in your abilities. You won by standing tall when, after much to the surprise (and joy) of spectators who gathered around to watch your grit and determination, you took your Goliath into extra innings! You won, even after the score said you lost by one run, by gaining the admiration and respect of your Goliath. By measures that last and matter most – you won.

Thank you for a truly exciting and inspiring game and for reminding us that winning can be measured in many ways, not solely by two numbers that fall on either side of a dash. The smiles on your faces as you proudly walked off the field that day told us that you probably already know this.

“Com’on Larry, give it a ride! Way to go Teddy! That’s the way Bru! That’s one for you Buckie!” This is some of the common chatter you might have heard at any Mountville Indians game this year. Yet oddly enough, no one on the team has any of these names. There’s no Snoop, Ernie, JoJo, Shep, C-Dub or MoFat either. So, who are these kids with the unusual names, and why do people think they’re Mountville Indians?

Because that’s how real teams are. It’s a lot like Cheers. Everyone knows your name – or collectively christens you with a term of endearment that somehow ends up sticking. And the longer they know you, the more likely they are to call you by your nickname instead of your given name. And that’s okay with you. It makes the name that much more special because you will only ever be “Larry,” “Teddy,” or whatever to those friends with whom you have shared a special set of experiences.

The capstone competitive experience for Indians teams for the past twelve years has been playing the week-long tournament at the Cooperstown (NY) Dreams Park. Teams from all over the U.S. and Canada, 104 teams in all, converge on the scenic Leatherstocking area to compete in this national tournament. Many are all-star teams drawing from large geographic areas; some are store-bought with rosters of recruited players and paid coaches; only a few, like the Mountville Indians, are true town teams – teams where everyone knows your name – real or invented- and where shared experiences extend far beyond the ball field into day-to-day lives. And the difference this makes, makes all the difference in the world.

One year at Cooperstown, I remember hearing a coach of one of the store-bought teams asking a player what he wanted to be called. The strapping 12-year old, who looked more like 14 or 15, yelled his name back to the coach as he strode his wiry, fresh-off-the-airplane legs across the infield to warm up with teammates he was meeting for the first time. The coach hurriedly jotted the name on the line-up; perhaps uncertain he could commit it to memory along with all the other names of players he also barely knew.

As I watched that scene unfold, I thought about the difference between this coach and Bob when a player comes up to bat. The difference between having to read a line-up and resumé to know a kid’s name and skill set, and actually “knowing” a kid; between a player’s teammates calling out a jersey number to cheer him on or corporately and spontaneously shouting out a moniker that falls off their tongues as easily as if it were their own. It’s the difference between Logan and Larry; Ryan and Ernie; Kenny and Snoop. It’s that difference that makes a team a real team. And that’s the chasm that separates what so many other kids who compete at the Dreams Park experience and the richness of the memories Mountville Indians take home with them each year.

When Bob retired from his professional career more than four years ago, it prompted many important life changes for us. One of the more important decisions we faced concerned the trophies amassed by the Indians throughout Bob’s coaching career. Since there currently is no public/community place for the display of these team trophies, Bob’s retirement necessitated a change of address for them – from his office to our home.  Suddenly these trophies took on much greater personal meaning for me!

I am no fan of in-home trophy displays, especially ones of such proportions. But the thought of all this bling being bubble-wrapped and packed away in labeled boxes truly saddened me. These trophies had value far exceeding their faux marble, simulated wood, and metallic-looking plastic components. They represented years of memories and achievements – great and small – of the hundreds of kids Bob has had the privilege of coaching; kids (and their families) who over the years had made visits to his office to gaze at these trophies, reminiscing plays, calls and stories that Mountville Indians legends are made of. These trophies needed to be accessible – somewhere Indians players and their families could still enjoy them.

So Bob and I made a pact. We would convert a bedroom into an office. I would arrange the trophies in a way that would not offend my home-decorating sensibilities, and Bob would dust them. Hand shake. Done deal.

Each year since then at the annual team picnic we host at our home – somewhere between the burgers and dogs, and the players-v-coaches water balloon battle – players, siblings, parents, and grandparents traipse upstairs to our home office now adorned with Mountville Indians trophies.  It’s a chance for them to get a deeper sense of the legacy of which they are now a part. They ask questions about past teams, about Joe Zangari’s hat, about the baseballs from each year bearing the names of every kid who has donned an Indians jersey under Bob’s watch, about the bats signed by past Indians teams. They gaze at the well-arranged and (mostly) well-dusted trophies. They reminisce plays, calls and stories that Mountville Indians legends are made of – and, for which they have had a hand in creating.