The first year was a learning one, and though the coaches didn’t seem too interested in teaching me, I got through it. When I was ten, I had a choice: I could play another year in minor league and then move up to Little League, or I could try out for Little League and see what happened. When I told my minor league coach that I was thinking about trying out for Little League, he chuckled.
“What, you think you can play Little League all of a sudden?” He hit an assistant coach on the shoulder, both of them enjoying a laugh at my expense. “You’re not good enough for Little League, boy. Just do one more year of the minor leagues, work on your fundamentals, and try out after that.”
I nodded and walked away, deflated but also a little indignant. Why was it such a bad idea for me to just try out? After all, if I didn’t make it, I would just spend another year in the minor leagues. But what if I did make it?
The day for Little League tryouts came, and I decided that despite my minor league coach’s advice, I was going to give it my best shot. I was trying out with other ten- to twelve-year-olds, and there was a nervous rumble in the dugout as we all waited for our names to be called.
“Douglas Luffborough!”
I bolted up, and they asked me to take the infield position that I wanted to play. I ran over to third base, ready to field ground balls and throw them to first. Just behind home plate, I could see my minor league coach with his arms crossed, shaking his head. His presence intimidated me so much that the first ground ball went right through my legs. The laughter that ripped around me made something in me come alive. I punched my glove. Bring it on!
I fielded the second ground ball cleanly and made a strong throw to first base. I made the next play and the next, and then they timed me as I ran the bases. I liked running and could take any kid my age in a race (chalk it up to those bullied days), so the Little League coaches were impressed with my speed. Then came hitting. I was not the best hitter, but I took big cuts at the ball and was not afraid to go down swinging. At the end of tryouts, I walked off the field satisfied with my performance but not sure if it was enough. Was I Little League material?
When I got home, my mother was in the bathroom washing our clothes in the bathroom tub. With wet, sudsy hands, she stuck her head out of the bathroom when she heard me arrive.
“How’d you do?” she asked, smiling.
I shrugged, scuffing my feet on the floor. “I gave it one hundred percent, but I don’t know if it was good enough.”
In her gentle manner, Ma said, “It’s in the Lord’s hands now, son. You did your best, and that is all you can ask for; let God do the rest.”
I did not hear from anyone until the day of my minor league team practice, which I did not attend—because on the phone talking to Mama Luff was Coach Miller, a former professional baseball player with the Baltimore Orioles. He had a son my age and was looking to start a Little League team of players that he could coach for a few years. He’d watched me during the tryouts and said that I had heart—and that he would be honored if I joined his team. My mother was all smiles as she gestured for me to take the phone. “He’s right here,” she said, all but wrapping my shocked fingers around the device.
For a couple of seconds, I was amazed into silence. The feeling of being wanted consumed me. I had made it. I was good enough. I did have what it took to play Little League. What I remembered from our conversation was that Coach Miller was direct, straightforward, and had big expectations for the new team. Our conversation was brief and matter-of-fact, but I was excited to speak with him.
When I hung up the phone, I realized a valuable lesson that I live by today, an echo of what motivational speaker Les Brown once said: “Never let someone else’s opinion of you become your reality. Only you can determine that!” I was so glad I had not let the voice of my minor league coach become louder than my inner voice that insisted, “You can do this!”
The first practice came up, and my inner battles of insecurity and low self-esteem started to once again consume me. I arrived early to see what was going on but kept to the outskirts of the field until more people arrived. There is something vulnerable about showing up first, and I was worried about putting myself out there. I wanted to scout out what I considered the competition to see if I would fit in. The savage, scared voice in my head was saying, “You are not good enough to play Little League. You don’t deserve to be here.” So I watched the other players to see if they looked like me: were there any kids of color? Would I fit in? Or were they all white kids from affluent families? My heart sank when I saw no one resembling the person I saw in the mirror. I then turned to analyzing the way they played ball; even if we had different lives, different stories, could I match their skills?
I loitered in the background until the entire team arrived and formed a circle around the pitcher’s mound. Coach Miller stood in the middle of the circle, welcoming his young crop of players. He looked like a clean-cut baseball player with a permanent tan, dressed in our team baseball cap, an orange polo shirt, black slacks, and a black jacket. He had a square face with a strong jaw, and later I’d discover he smoked cigarettes in between practices and games. As I approached, he stopped what he was saying and turned to me.
“Luffborough,” he said gruffly, “I was just talking to everyone on the team about the importance of showing up early in life. If you are fifteen minutes early, you are on time. If you are on time, you are late, and if you come late without calling me, you run—so put down your gear and start doing laps around the field. I will tell you when to stop.”
My heart sank. The last thing I wanted to do was to disappoint someone who believed in me, someone who was giving me an opportunity to play Little League. I had been there early but let fear and intimidations overwhelm me. What a horrible first impression I’d made. Never again, I vowed.
The first practice for me was more like track practice—I never even used my glove. Immediately afterwards, I spoke with Coach and apologized for being late. His response was short and sweet: “Luffborough, you are not in the minor leagues anymore!”
I left practice defeated and angry with myself. I did not want to sabotage this opportunity because of my insecurities, but up until now, assuring myself of my unworthiness was the only way I knew how to deal with new situations. It gave me a backwards sense of comfort; after all, if I told myself I wasn’t good enough, didn’t stack up, then I didn’t have to put myself out there and really try. When I got home, my mother asked me how practice had gone and I told her it was fine, but I needed to make some adjustments.
The next day, I arrived to practice thirty minutes earlier than needed because I wanted to warm up and run before the rest of the team arrived. To my surprise, many of my teammates were already there doing the same thing. I had never seen that level of commitment from my peers before, but as Coach had said, I was not in the minor leagues anymore.
When Coach arrived, he greeted everybody, and we started running as a team. If one person started to lag behind, he had the stronger runners run backwards so we all stayed together. Coach Miller was intense and managed us as if we were professional baseball players. He had a spirit of excellence and expected one hundred and ten percent from each player, regardless of talent and natural abilities. Coach despised laziness and laid into anyone who took a laissez-faire approach to practice or games. He led through fear and intimidation at times, but that was motivated by a desire to help us be the best we could be. His presence demanded it.
Please share this blog throughout your network and order your copy of Watch Me Rise today at:
https://store.roundtablecompanies.com/SearchResults.asp?Search=doug+luffborough&Submit=GO