Our captains have fallen

Red quit the team the first week in August, the second to last game I was with the team before my exit.

            Not the easiest man to get along with, Red was one of the few convicts I could be a little afraid of. Powerfully built, he could get a strange look in his eye. More than once he had utterly stopped communicating with me. For two years he would accost me while I was coaching the flag football team, during games, and start in on some harangue that I never could grasp the meaning of. And I tried, too, to make sense of the nature of the trouble.

            Red was elected captain by the team for 2011. Johnny had been the captain in 2010, but for reasons unknown, he was rejected. When I heard about it, I was not pleased. Johnny was the guy I would confide in and he could be depended on to tell me the truth.  Now he had been replaced.

            Being captain means little more than handling internal complaints among the players so the coaches are not burdened with them. I don’t think Red saw the job that way; what he wanted to do was to be able to get on the players for making errors in the field and not hitting at the plate.

            This misunderstanding of his role surfaced in June. The Giants lost a couple of games back to back, which always spells trouble, and Red was getting on players in the dugout for their errors. Seeing this, I took Red aside and explained that, at least during a game, we do not get on players for either physical or mental mistakes–it is a coaching thing and to be worked out in a practice. Red disagreed, strongly, and the conversation ended dismally. However, Red did stop the confrontations with the players, but only for a while.

            Not sure how old Red is, early forties at least, but his skills are declining. For years he had the number four hole in the line-up. Clean-up is what we like to designate it, and there is pressure to perform. Red’s performance began to slip until it disappeared. This was when I worked with him on his hitting and it improved to some degree. That last only a few games then he fell back into the old way of swinging, the softball swing, and it was painful for everyone. There was no choice, and Kevin, our great co-manager and long time friend, and I agreed–Red had to be moved to a lower hole in the batting order. I can see the look on his face right now when he came into the dugout to look at the line-up card as though he knew what he would find. Yep, batting seventh. He never said a word and proceeded to go hitless in three at bats with one strike out.

            Next game it started again; he was getting into player’s faces if they made an error. It sounded mean and degrading so I had to ask him to step outside the dugout for a little chat. This was not an exciting time for me. He would not listen but insisted as captain he had the right to rebuke and reprove team players. He walked away from me in mid stream.

            The next game we played a tough team and were behind from the first inning. Red was at first base, hitting sixth now because Kevin and I wanted to give him something, and he was playing badly, two errors in the field, two strike outs looking, but worse, dogging it, and Kevin would have none of it.

            This was a game I was running and I was at the third base coaching box. After an inning’s third out, the team broke from the dugout toward their defensive positions, except Red. He sauntered out to first, and late, with no baseball in his glove for warming the infielders up, and Kevin yelled out to him to hustle it up. Soon as he heard it, Red stopped, turned, threw his glove toward the dugout, tore off his cap, jerked off his shirt right about when he got alongside the pitcher’s mound, and that was it. He quit.

            Kevin approached him and the two got in a terrific argument, which drew the attention of a lower yard officer. If a fist fight were to break out, or even some shoving, the whole program might suffer. I entered the dugout and tried to quiet the men, and failing that I told them that a cop was approaching. That at least cooled things down, but Red was gone.

            What a shock, but it was not over. The trouble spilled over to the rest of the guys and a heated argument erupted between Johnny and Kevin. By that time I was out at third base again and did not know what was taking place. At the end of the inning there was no Johnny in the dugout–he had quit the team, too.

            I was crushed; I felt empty. My confidant on the team, gone. The captain, gone. We got beat and badly on top of it. Team chemistry, gone now, and where do we go from here.    

Convict mentality – the good, the bad, and the ugly

A cliché I know, but it fits.

            Some of the finest people I have ever known are convicts. I think of Chris Rich, who killed his wife with a baseball bat. He fell into alcohol dependence after his very promising baseball career ended. If you spent some time with him you would know why I think so highly of him and it all started out on a bad note as I identified him as part of the reason I got bounced, for a couple seasons, from the Giants to the A’s. He even confessed his part in it to me.

            Bilal Chatman, a Muslim,[1] I think, a man I trust and consistently has been a credit to the Giants. When he lost his starting position due to lack of production at the plate, his positive presence on the bench was noticeable. And what a face, his character shines through. I nicknamed Bilal “The Rock.” I wish I had spent a lot more time than I did just talking with him, and now I may never the chance.

            Chris Marshall, Marcus Crumb, Stafont Smith, Doug Winn, Orlando “Duck” Harris, Mike Tyler, Charles Lyons, all Black like Bilal and YaYa, I include these men among the “good.” A Black A’s player, Marvin Andrews, a fine man I have known for years–they don’t come any better. And there are others I could mention but who did not have a chance to sign a release form.

            A Pacific Islander, another designated racial group at the prison, is Eli Sala. Quiet man, stocky, strong, not fat, a gold tooth right in front, he can hit, run, and field. He also can pitch. For years now he has been on one of my teams and even though he can only show up on Saturdays due to classes he takes during the week, I welcome him on the team anyway. From time to time I hear complaints from other Giants about Eli’s unavailability for Thursday night games.

            Eli is like gold, like the tooth. He is not the best guy ever to be in a SQ Giants uniform; he will always be an mvp to me.

            Curtis Roberts, Pete Steele, these men I have gotten to know well. Also there is Frankie Smith, our first base coach–a fine man, who I just heard has been diagnosed with head and neck cancer, which has spread throughout his jaw and lower mouth. Stage four I think someone said; seems improbable now that I will ever see him again.

            One of the last games I managed before being forced out, Frankie pitched for the opposing team. Only seven players showed up and without a pitcher or catcher. Marcus volunteered to catch and Frankie to pitch. He must be fifty-five, as far as I know had not been throwing, nevertheless he pitched five solid innings and only gave up three runs, which was enough for a loss, but what heart. By the fourth inning I could see he was in pain; he sucked it up and keep firing.

             Pete Steele deserves a whole chapter devoted just to him. He is the con who came out of nowhere to pitch for what were the Pirates ten years ago and win that game throwing to Donnie Worthy behind the plate. Later that year we lost Pete when it was discovered he had created a document, somehow, forged a captain’s signature, and was able to get himself from H Unit up to the lower yard after the restrictions placed on him for some kind of mischief. Then, after the season, he disappeared only to show up in May of this year and has become our most dependable pitcher.

            Pete can play anywhere, pitcher, first base, short stop, third base, outfield, and he is so far the home run champ. Tall, strong, now forty years old, athletic but does not necessarily look it, he took a bad hop during a game, hit him right in the mouth, blood everywhere and a front toot punctured his lower lip. Hideous injury and away he went in an ambulance. That was on a Thursday, that next Saturday, he pitched nine whole innings and won the game for the Giants, even hit a homer.

            Meth has been his problem; that drug is so hard to resist. I have been told that it would get me to if I ever tried it. The whites like meth, speeds them up for working, sex, and fighting. Matt White, Frank Braby, and Pete–each good men, not bad or ugly, and the attraction is powerful. Pete has a wife, kids, a home, and a job waiting for him. Sounds like he has started going to the chapel. He really wants to make it. Such a likeable guy. He is going home, here in the same county where I live, at the end of August and I hope he gives me a call.

            I did not mention Mario Ellis, have not said much about Mike or Charles, but fine men. Mario, a superior athlete, is hard to manage. He redefines “defensive.” Mike and Charles, not great baseball players but will be stars on the football team, and are, without a doubt, the fastest guys in the prison.

            The bad, can’t go too far with this and I don’t want to judge. Who knows what any man would do given the conditions that many have to live with. Take away hope and meaning and what is left. Prison is a place where struggles are being fought to maintain one’s humanness. Not to have any real goal, or mission as it is often put, robs a man of something that goes to the core. It is possible that a mission might be to try to cause the collapse of the baseball program. All the guys that have been cut from making a team over the years or those who have proven to others and even themselves that they just don’t have it anymore–the search for meaning goes on.

I have heard a lot of sad stories, usually second hand since convicts rarely carry on much. Stoic might describe it. There is danger that lurks in over sympathizing with the convicts. Not uncommon to see someone naively trying to make a convict’s life a little better by bringing in some form of contraband. Innocent, ignorant, foolish, yes, which become criminal and illegal. I will never forget the seventy-two year old woman who, as a long time volunteer with the Protestant Chapel, brought in items that actually led to her arrest. I knew this fine woman well and I will not easily be able to get out of my mind the sight of her being taken out of the building that houses the warden and the other higher-ups in hand cuffs and being escorted to a waiting police car. Strangely, I never heard of her again, nothing but silence.

The ugly, there is ugliness in everyone, myself included. Ugly lies in wait and hidden because it is costly to display it. I see it more plainly in some of the correctional officers. Among these are the good; I would like to talk about them but I should not. Every convict knows the good cops and these men and women are respected. The good ones are firm, fair, and approachable. They do their jobs, obey the rules, and are not mean. The mean ones, the bad and the ugly, in perhaps the majority. The worst are those who have to show they are tough by being mean and vengeful. They play the ubiquitous game of pay-back. They have not internalized the golden rule of treating others as you would be treated.

Due to my longevity at San Quentin I have seen officers turned and changed. At the start they are pleasant, business-like, but human. Over time I have seen the move from good to bad. And it is ugly.

[1] Interesting that I am a Christian, two of my staunchest supporters have been Muslims during this tumultuous 2011 season, Bilal and YaYa. Both African Americans, converts to Islam, have consistently proven themselves to be reliable and honorable men.

Full blast-the rivalry

What started it all? How did it get to this place?

            I can only guess at what happened, but I think it goes back to 2004 when all the media attention began.[1]

There were rumors that I was in danger. I would need to step back, as I heard it. I did not since I did not see or feel any real problem.

Prior to the start of the 2005 season a big meeting was planned. Word was that I was bumped from managing the Giants and the powers that be intended to reshape the program. To counter I suggested the formation of a second team, a resurrection of the old Pirates, which I would manage thus leaving an un-named person to manage the Giants.

Coming into the prison for the big meeting, I was stunned to find that my brown card was not in its normal place at the East Gate. The officer at the gate, a person I had known for many years, explained that an un-named person had pulled it out of the box only moments before. I asked to make a call from the phone in the east gate shack and try to contact the person who was putting the meeting together. That move got me into the prison, into the meeting, and manager of the Pirates.[2]

It was not long before I found out the reason for the trouble: media attention and all the cons knew it. It was intolerable to the un-named person that I should be getting the attention, which there really was not much of. However, unbeknownst to me a documentary was to be done on the baseball team, and though I had managed the team alone for years, a change had to be made.

Put a camera in front of someone’s face and magic happens. Nearly everyone succumbs. I am not immune either. During the late 1960s and early 1970s I had my share. A leader in the Jesus People Movement, I had made Time magazine and even had some television interviews. For years I had travelled with a band called Joyful Noise and flew around the country like a big deal. After awhile it all passed and I never realized anything out of it except grief and disillusionment. Sure, I was a little resentful at being brushed aside, but that did not last too long. Most ball players wish the press would just go away anyway, unless of course you are a convict.

That was then, and for a number of years, things returned to normal, one had one team, the Giants, much of the media attention went away, and things were good. Then it started up all over again, and the rush to mug in front of a lens changed things–at least, this is part of what happened as it seems to me.

Red Sox versus the Yankees, Dodgers versus the Giants–historic rivalries, and we love them. San Quentin Giants versus the San Quentin A’s, some love it, I would like to love it, but there is no real history to it, no naturalness to it, no fun to it either. But it rages and it is getting to me. I can see myself deteriorating, see myself losing my balance. Stress is a killer and I am stressed out, to the point of becoming combative. Something has to be done.

[1] I wish I could be more concrete but I cannot. People and places could be named certainly, and things said, yet it is necessary to be vague. We are talking about prisons and convicts, and convicts often get paroled.

[2] The original San Quentin team was the Pirates. The Pirates became the Giants when the San Francisco Giants gave us their winter uniforms.

Softball swing

Prisoners play a lot of softball; few play baseball. The softball played is slow pitch where the ball is arced 6 to 9 feet in the air and the batter will use an exaggerated upper cut to hit the steeply falling ball. Often the batter will “step in the hole” meaning that the back foot is moved backward and downward suddenly during the swing. The result of it is that the head moves a great deal. This does not matter much in slow pitch softball, but it is death in fast pitch hardball.

            The whole thing is that the head moves way too much for a batter with a softball swing to hit a baseball thrown at seventy miles per hour or faster. The brain tracks the trajectory of the ball and with reasonable hand-eye coordination, the bat will meet the ball. Or, at least a good baseball swing, with less head movement, has a better chance to put a ball in play.

            Adrian “Red” Casey, a Black man with red hair and blue eyes, our captain, number four hitter and first baseman, due to playing softball for a whole lot of years, understandably came up with an awful softball-style swing. For a couple of years he was going for the home run record, which is thirteen, but in the last twelve games this year he is batting under 200 with no homers. Red and I have had our disagreements over the years. Indeed, for two seasons he was mad at me and only talked to me if he had to. Last week I could see he was desperate.

            Red was voted the team captain this year over last year’s choice, Johnny Taylor, for the first time ever. Two games in a row he was taken out of the game for a player who I hoped might have a better chance of putting the ball in play. Red no longer had that coveted clean-up role. Before I made the moves, I told Red what was happening and he just looked at me and nodded. He knew why.

            A week ago, June 20, I asked Red if I could talk to him about his swing. Not that I know that much about hitting a baseball, but I ended up playing in two scrimmage games and was hitting .500 with only one strike out. Not bad for a sixty-nine year old guy. Funny thing, the players paid more attention to my instruction after that, and Red did too. He wanted some help.

            I showed him what I knew. Negative load, front foot down first before the swing begins, arms in close, swing pretty much straight down, level the bat through the zone, then a slight up with the bat in the follow through. That and discipline yourself as best you can, unless of course you have two strikes on you already, to swing at pitches you can hit without reaching for the pitch. Standard stuff, taught at most high schools, standard in college and professional levels, but not the rule in prisons due to the softball swing.

            The lesson lasted less than two minutes. Red grabbed the bat out of my hands and said, “I got it coach; I’ll have it for next game.”

            He did too, well not the next game but this very last one. It took him a little longer to adjust than he thought. I could not have done it. I barely have it down and I was at it forever it seems before I was able to keep myself from striding while swinging. For fifty plus years I have been swinging the bat wrongly so that if I hit it, it would be largely an accident. Had to “re-pattern” my muscles and my mind.

            I’m proud of Red, surprised too. Murder two, long, long sentence, not sure he will ever get out, but as a muscular solid athlete hitting from the left side it sure will be nice to see him loft a few over our short-porch in right field.      

Thinking About How Others Would Be Impacted If I Killed Myself

My brother Gary’s suicide is still embedded in my mind, and I experience periods of regret to this day, which makes me very sad. I have to accept the fact that the memory of it will never go away.

Gary was four years younger than me and was a combat engineer in the Army.  He was part of a team that would move into neutral or enemy territory and make ready for later teams of soldiers to have a little fortress, so to speak. It was dangerous stuff.

When he returned home from Nam, about 1968, he moved in with his and my parents, on Whitegate Avenue in Sunland, CA., still within the city limits of Los Angeles. Gary was a tough guy, started a gang called The Eagles, and twice I took him to an emergency room, once to get his jaw wired and another to do the same to a wrist. All the Philpott boys were boxers; my dad trained us to do this when we were really little. I still pound the body bag and work the speed bag every Wednesday at the gym. Our brother Bruce ended his career as a cop as chief of police of Pasadena. After he died, we found boxing trophies in his closet won in a boxing league formed by L A cops plus the county’s sheriff’s department.

Gary and I were very close, and I blame myself for not acting when we found out he shot himself in the hand. My parents were very concerned and started getting him help at an Army hospital. But one day, early in the morning, he drove to a Lutheran Hospital in San Fernando Valley, parked his VW Beetle under an American flag, and shot himself in the head. My mom, dad, brother, and I were shocked to the core, and we each blamed ourselves for not taking action earlier.

You can see where I am going with this. Yes, what about my family members, my five kids, eight grand kids, three great grand kids, and here their relative, and a long-time pastor, killing himself. Then my ex-wives, my present wife, and all my friends at the church, all the kids I coached at high schools in Marin here, and more as well. How would my suicide impact them? Certainly not good, and some likely very badly.

Right now I am sitting here typing this and I am not feeling good at all. I am almost shattered to even think like this. To be truthful I have wanted to write this little booklet a long while ago, but always seemed to find ways not to.

This is likely the number one reason that when I have considered doing myself in that this issue comes up. I may seem like a real basket case to you reader right now, but let me say I am far stronger now in my desire to continue living than ever before. Please do not worry about me.

I am putting this little chapter toward the ending of this booklet so as not to upset any reader. But it is this reason, the possibility of hurting and damaging others who know and love me if I killed myself. Especially my dear daughters and son, these would be shattered and would never get over it.

Also, I am presenting this chapter so that others who might be considering doing away with themselves to stop and think about how this would trouble others, those who love and know you, even those who you do not feel good about.

Now then, as we near the conclusion of this short series of essays, if you reader are mired in a desire to kill yourself, stop and think it over. Give a family member or friend a call and start talking with them, be real about what is going on in your head and heart. You do not have to feel embarrassed about this, it takes courage and strength to reach out for help.

Feeling, thinking, or planning to take your own life is not at all unusual, especially in this crazy mixed-up world we are living in. I mean, it goes with the territory. To have thoughts or a desire to end it all is not surprising, and I would guess that a sizeable percentage of the population today is experiencing such things, especially the young people. You would be surprised if you knew how many of the people you know are going through some rough spots.

Last Sunday at church, we had a congregational meeting following the morning service. At one point, while making a summary of what was coming up, I talked about writing this book. And wow, so many looked at me and nodded their heads in agreement. Turns out, I was not the only one who had these disabling ideas in their heads. It was at that point, when with the heads nodding and a couple of thumbs up, that I knew this little booklet had to get out.

The Con?

Paul Newman, Robert Redford–The Sting, a con run by experts. “Con” comes from convict and cons run cons as a kind of sport. Prison is boring, among other things, and anything that concentrates the mind and provides some excitement is welcomed. Over the years I have been conned, never saw it coming, only realized it after the fact, and I thought I was experienced enough now to keep out of harm’s way. I was almost wrong.

            The days following Kevin’s beating I heard more reports of what had happened. Some discrepancies became apparent however. The numbers of officers beating on him declined sharply in number for instance. Reasons for the incident were talked about and I began to think that Kevin had even provoked the officers involved, to some degree. Other details did not match up either, and my mind went to the possibility of a con being run on me.

            I have to admit that some of the convicts would like to get rid of me. It has been attempted in the past, and the trouble I am having with some A’s players might be a motive for another try at it. They think, and I know this for certain, that I am favoring the Giants. Truth is, I am. It all has to do with scheduling games. That job was taken away from me for the first time in fifteen years and I resent it. More than that, it complicates my world so I let the chips fall where they may so that has meant, in the past two months, the A’s have played far fewer games than the Giants. I could have prevented it but I didn’t.

Prison, for both prisoner and guard, likely will corrupt the mind, however subtlety, but bend or distort it for sure. Though this is a subject I often mention or allude to, still I continue to bring it up because I know I have been impacted but I do not know to what degree. Am I being paranoid thinking a con is being run on me? I talk to my wife about it and she is not sure either. As I write this I can sense some anger in me. I can’t let that stupid prison make me crazy.

The most graphic and horrific accounts came from two A’s players. Both insisted on talking to me where the officer in the gun tower just above the field might be able to hear, and if not that, certainly he would be able to observe the description of the beating being acted out for my benefit. It is also well known that I have a tendency to over-react, go off even some times, and it dawned on me that if I were provoked to take the inmate’s side and start accusing the prison officials with gross injustice and law breaking–prisoners do have rights and court ordered protections–I might just get bounced out of the prison. A game within a game?

            A con? Right now I am not sure, but I am suspicious. I am going to slow it down, focus on listening and keeping my mouth shut. One thing, I am going to work on moving the A’s back to the intramural status as originally intended. I’ve got my plan; I have to have a survival plan. If I am going off the deep end then I have to move back from the edge. It is far more difficult for me to give it up all together than make a change I calculate will lessen my anxiety. Maybe I am too invested.

There is something else, too. All it would take to have my beige (brown) card pulled, and my tenure as the baseball coach ended, would be for a con to accuse me of groping him or something similar. I would be gone quick and I could even face criminal charges. If I were to land in some lock-up, I would not last long.