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.  

It was a tsunami

Thursday, June 16 will be a hard day to forget, or remember.

A new team was coming in called Tsunami, managed by Daniel Larson. Looking over the ages of the players I knew it was going to be a tough game as the guys were young. Mostly they lived in San Francisco’s Mission District, in the area that was enjoying a resurgence, and where a lot of young techy types were moving to.

As I drove down into the prison’s visitor’s parking lot I spotted them right off especially one tall, well built young man. Turned out he left his photo ID at home and would not get in. He said he would walk over to the Larkspur ferry terminal and catch a boat back to the City. Picturing the long walk, and potentially dangerous one at that, I told him I would drive him over there since there was still plenty of time left before I had to escort the Tsunami into the prison.

On the way, Stuart is his name, said he was going to be the starting pitcher and Daniel would have to go with someone else. Right away I felt a slight bit of a downer as I would rather face a team’s best. Most baseball people would rather lose to a team’s best than beat something less. Stuart assured me that the other guy would be tough on us in any case.

Tsunami’s left hander, John Hirsch, was that all right, but he could not find the strike zone quickly enough and we scored two runs in the first inning, which would prove to be enough for a Giants’ win. During the second inning however, one of the worst mishaps I have ever seen at the prison took place.

Kevin Loughlin was running the game and was at the 3rd base coaching box making the calls; I was at the first base box. Bottom of the second, a runner on first base, no one out, and Kevin flashes the steal sign. Our runner, Stafont Smith, takes off, the Tsunami catcher fired down to second but the ball skipped off just behind the second baseman. He turned to retrieve the ball, took a few steps, and collapsed. Looked like an ankle to me and I ran toward him. He was face down moaning in agony. I knelt beside him and looked him over. I had been a medic in the military for four years and still remembered some of what I had been taught.

Not wanting to touch him, I asked him where it hurt. No answer but he gestured with his hand toward his feet. It was quite easy to see there was a bulging on the sock just above his cleat on his right foot. Not a compound fracture as there was no blood or broken skin; it was as though the bone had snapped, clean, straight line, surgically straight.

The player, Jay Hardaway, the only black on the Tsunami, thirty years old, slight of build, strong and wiry, wore long and carefully braided dreads, with plenty of tattoos on his arms. (Later on, waiting for the ambulance, Jay explained the tattoos, which turned out to be mostly names of his family grouped about with a big cross.)

Right away an officer ran toward us and I asked him to call for an ambulance. I was not sure if Jay knew what had happened to him. I was checking for signs of shock, none of which had appeared, and I just keep him talking to me.

Soon a whole crowd gathered about us on the grass, about fifteen yards from the second base bag.  An Alarm sounded meaning that the inmates had to sit down. Almost all of the Giants were seated in the dugout since we had been at bat with the exception of Stafont Smith who had stolen second and was sitting on the bag watching the events unfold. Stafont usually had a big toothy grin going, but now he was somber looking.

San Quentin’s own ambulance arrived. A couple of the guys I knew were part of the crew. The free man, the supervisor of the paramedic team, looked at Jay’s injury and made a call to an outside ambulance that could transport Jay to Marin General Hospital in Greenbrae because he knew surgery would be required.

A good twenty minutes went by before the ambulance arrived. It had to go through the vehicle sally port for inspection first. The two paramedics from St. Joseph’s Ambulance service surveyed the situation quickly, carefully took the cleat on Jay’s right foot off, cut away the sock, and stabilized the ankle and foot. Then they used an “air” splint, a clear plastic pillow-like contraption. Jay did not react much to it but clung to a baseball I had given him.

Just before the St. Joseph’s ambulance arrived, Kevin brought a baseball out that all the Giants players had signed. Jay saw it, kissed it, and lifted up his arm and waved the ball at the Giants’ dugout. All the guys applauded like crazy. I wish I could more appropriately express this.

After some few minutes, Jay was lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of the ambulance. Once more the Giants’ applause could be heard. One of the other Tsunami players climbed into the ambulance and went along with Jay. Play resumed after some warm ups and a few innings later, the Giants recorded the win.

But the real tsunami had struck earlier.

            Kevin Driscoll figured he would never get out of prison. Sentenced to fifty years[1] he would respond to the question, “When are you going home?” with, “Never!” It had been murder by gun–and Kevin was in his mid-thirties. Even if he one day walked out, or was wheeled out, what kind of a life would he have? No home, no family, nothing really; maybe it would be better to die in prison.

            On Saturday, June 11, five days before the Tsunami game, I brought my wife Katie into the prison with me. She had been there a number of times before, the most recent being opening day, May 7. She had met Kevin then along with the rest of the team. When we got home Saturday afternoon she commented on how strange Kevin had been. I said I saw the wild look in his eye, too. He started on the mound, had two good innings, and then fell apart in the third.  Needing to keep his bat in the game, I put him at second base but he did not field or hit well. That’s the background then for what would follow on Tuesday, the 14th.

            After the players got their uniforms on I called a team meeting to discuss the issue of the A’s disrespect shown by their trying to influence the game when the Suns had been with us days before. I did not hit it too hard but I was firm that the Giants would not so behave.  Judging by the looks on the faces of the players it seemed like none of them had acted in kind. That was it, short and sweet, and then to get ready for the game as the Tsunami team had already begun loosening up in right field.

            As I approached the Giants’ dugout, an inmate waved me over. I cannot name him, he asked me not to, and he told me why Kevin was not suited up to play. On Tuesday the 14th, Kevin had been acting funny, so funny that he was observed with his pants down to his ankles, and his head in one of the porta-potties found on the lower yard splashing urine on his face. Earlier he had been seen on all fours eating grass. Seems that some of the guys wanted to call attention to the weirdness and have Kevin put into some kind of protective custody but did not pull the trigger quickly enough. An officer spotted Kevin with his face in the portable and approached him. Loud harsh words were heard, and then all of a sudden the officer hit Kevin with pepper spray, which resulted in Kevin going face down on the ground. Then it got ugly. For ten or so minutes, Kevin received a brutal beating with fists and the stubby little black batons the guards carry on their belts. This in full view of a hundred plus inmates plus some few teachers who worked in the education department that sits just beyond the left field fence. At this point, the conversation I was having with the inmate was interrupted and virtually ended. There followed a series of inmates coming over to me and giving me an account of the events. All of these were A’s players interestingly enough.

            Minutes later I was waved over by an inmate, this time while I was in the dugout. It was another player on the A’s team, one who had given me some grief over recent weeks, but who now wanted to talk confidentially with me. He described the beating of Kevin, acted it out with enough detail that I realized there were now several accounts of the event and they perfectly matched.

            Where was Kevin now?[2] No one knew. Some said in the prison hospital; some said in segregation housing; others said he had been transported to Marin General Hospital, the same place Jay was taken.

            I will find out, and I will also contact his father, and somehow tell him what had happened to the son he loved so much and grieved for every day.

[1] Kevin, upon his return home from a business trip, got in a fight with his wife; she was angry and fought hard. Kevin reached into his night stand, pulled out his home security weapon and shot her. He got 25 years for the murder and a 25 year enhancement for using a gun. Had he used a baseball bat he would have been looking at a 25 to life sentence instead. I verified all this with his father at a lunch at Marin Brewery early in the year. Kevin had just completed the work for a law degree. I doubt he will ever get to take a bar exam.  

[2] At the time of this writing, August 24, it is not definite Kevin’s exact location. He had been, or it was thought, up in the fourth floor of the hospital, in a rubber room, where he actually watched the Giants play ball. It is rumored now that he is in an isolation cell. More to come on this.

Here is the chapter from Why I Decided Not to Kill Myself

Forgiveness: The Great Miracle

Recently I wrote a book about how I had made “shipwreck” of my faith and my life, and this based on something the Apostle Paul said in 1 Timothy 1:18–19.

I confess I have contemplated suicide from time to time, no attempts, but the thoughts brought on a depressed state of mind. And during the pandemic we learned about S.A.D., Seasonal Attitudinal Disorder. I had it, mostly all gone now as we are in the Spring of the year, but I did not hide it from others. The result was a number of these told me they felt the same way.

Once again, I have to admit that my two divorces yet haunt me; I was not the sole trouble, but enough to impact my life as I think back over those times. No question but that I was a “bad man. And those who knew me, even other ministers and pastors, some of these rejected me then and continue to do so to this day.

How I faced the really stupid and rebellious things I have done made all the difference. And this because I came to a greater understanding of the forgiveness I have in my Lord Jesus Christ, and the personal admission that I am a not as wonderful as I would like to be.

I have to explain a paradox here, and that due to two Greek words that are found in the New Testament, and both of these are translated by the word “time”. They are, Kairos and Chronos, that is using English equivalents for Greek words. Kairos is God’s time, Chronos is human time. 

And here is the saving grace: my sin, and all of it, past, present, and future, was placed upon Jesus on the cross. This is Kairos time, and it is in Kairos time where God is. Chronos time, ongoing, day by day, and is where I am and in which I sin.

Let me say it another way: my sin, even that yet in the future, was laid upon Jesus on that “Good Friday” so long ago. Yes, the sin of all those who trust in Jesus as their Savior and to whom the Holy Spirit reveals the truth and does the saving work, from the beginning of creation to the very end, the whole of that sin is covered in the shed blood of the Lamb of God.

Only the Creator God could do this, and of course we cannot grasp it all. Some argue that this point of Biblical theology gives us a excuse to continue to sin. Yet the paradox of time stands clearly in the Bible.

And I do not sin that grace might more abound, as the old saying goes. It is knowing that our sin is covered that inspires us to more closely follow Jesus and turn from sin. To live in this crazy world is often horrid, and there is great relief in knowing that my sin is covered, and I belong to Him, and forever.

This great miracle then gives us the courage to live on. This does not mean that I don’t get down from time to time, I do, but I remind myself of the salvation I have, and I have an inner strength, brought by the working of the Holy Spirit, that gives me the desire to keep on keeping on.

Forgiveness, oh yes, forgiveness.

Johnny and Curtis

“I played with the Astros in the seventies,” an old con told me, “And I can still throw the ball a hundred miles an hour.”

“Number 8, that was my number when I was in the big leagues.”

“I was a Yankee, played with Don Mattingly in the glory years.”

            My response is often “Okay, let me check that on the internet. How do you spell your name?”

            Maybe I would create a fictional life if I was spending most of the years of my life in prison. I think everyone wants to be somebody and have purpose and meaning in life even if it is a fantasy. Usually I simply listen and act impressed.

There are only a few players on the Giants that I trust enough to tell their stories in a book like this. I am told so many lies, which is understandable since so many felons do not want to appear in a bad but a good light. But with Johnny and Curtis, I will take the risk.

Johnny is thirty eight years old, has been in prison for eighteen years, and is not eligible for parole until 2029. He is white, but ran with the Hispanics and is classed with that race. He looks every bit the convict, tattoos on his neck, arms, chest, and back. To me he looks like he has fetal alcohol syndrome, meaning his mother drank to excess while Johnny was in the womb.

He is bright however, very active, an excellent athlete, and is very much a dedicated Giants player. He is one of those guys who gives it all he’s got. Physically he is a wreck. His knees both need replacing and I understand at least one will be after the season is over. About the seventh inning, a hot day, maybe two more innings to go and Johnny won’t come out of the game. He has learned to ignore the pain, which I can see he has once in a while.

Johnny is easily angered though. He tries to keep in under control but it flashes out now and then. He and Mario will get into some real scary arguments and I have to get in the middle of it for fear the lower yard officers will make a report about it. He told me, and I guess it is common knowledge, that he killed more than one person, maybe a few, and he knows he earned the years he has to do.

Last week he saw his son, Little John, for the first time in six years. The son, now eighteen, has grown up without a father, and the mother, Johnny’s wife, is divorcing him. Not unusual when a wife has waited nearly two decades already and is facing a couple more of these. Johnny wears jersey #29 and he asked me if I could find another Giants jersey with #29 on it and send to his son. Along with eight photos of Johnny taken on Opening Day, the jersey was sent off priority mail yesterday.

Curtis, aged forty nine, is a three striker and a parole hearing scheduled for 2029 would seem like a big break for him. He is not eligible for parole until 2044. Three strikes, three felony convictions, earns a long stretch in prison. The law is peculiar to California and was an effort by the voters to put the worst criminals away for a long time. It probably works, but it also condemns many non-violent offenders, who may be capable of being rehabilitated, to a situation that is hopeless.

At the beginning of the baseball season I handed out a sheet of paper to the Giants players where I had some questions about their lives. Curtis’ response was by far the most extensive. At age six he was molested by an older brother, which continued for many years, and which was followed by his father sexually abusing him as well. Very sordid, so much so I wish I had never read it. Though he married and fathered two children, his life was a mess.

Curtis liked to smoke crack cocaine; it destroyed his life. He robbed places, small time stuff, to get money for drugs. Once he burglarized a relative’s cabin in Big Bear, southern California resort area, and picked up a strike.  Strike one, a robbery in 1985, strike two, another robbery in 1989 (Curtis claims he did not do it), and this last one got him a nine year sentence but he did only five due to good behavior. Strike three was a robbery and a forth strike, a burglary–both in 1995. His sentence was fifty years to life. What he needed was rehabilitation in an appropriate setting.

His wife divorced him, he has lost contact with his parents, and doubts he will ever go home–he has no home to go to anyway. He is convinced he will die in prison and he hopes it will be sooner than later. From time to time he is placed on suicide watch.

He never feels safe from the sexual predators. He is a small man, and now nearly fifty he is an easy target. He has been raped in prison, more than once, and lives in constant fear of being attacked. To this day he is constantly worried about it happening again and cannot get it off his mind. Unfortunately he has no group he runs with and is forced into being somewhat of a loner.

Curtis is a Christian, but does attend chapel services. The last chaplain treated him so poorly that he is soured on the whole chapel experience.

A few games back Curtis brought me a letter from a prison doctor–no more throwing baseballs for him. He had surgery to reattach a ligament in his right shoulder but when I asked that he play second base he said yes, and did, despite the pain. Curtis will now take over the 3rd base coaching box and give the signs which I will flash from the safety of the dugout. Hope I am not putting Curtis in harm’s way, but I cannot see the ball coming off those aluminum bats anymore plus it gives him an active role on the team.

 There is a three striker who plays on the A’s and I am glad he received a long sentence. We are all a little safer with him behind bars. Curtis on the other hand, in my view anyway, should have been released a long while ago. The difference between the two men illustrates the near impossibility of creating a level playing field in terms of corrections and rehabilitation. On paper, both convicts look the same, but they are radically different from one another, and the prison system, despite its growing sophistication, is not equipped to deal with the nuances.       

Please forgive me for sinning against you

Okay, I wrapped up chapter six about talking with others about emotional, even spiritual pain in the past. Now this is a bit different.

To start with, I have done this very thing—asking someone I harmed in the past to forgive me, and to be honest I am experiencing some unpleasant emotions right now. I recall a time or two when I was glad I made the confession and asked for forgiveness, but then I did not adequately calculate the repercussions and caused further harm. It is very unpleasant to even recall those instances.

To engage someone whom I have damaged in some way or another in the the process of confession and requesting forgiveness requires careful consideration. For one thing, we must be sure we are doing this for the other persons sake and not our own. It is not enough just to get things off one’s chest, so to speak. Our concern is for the other person who has been sinned against.

Some examples first: A person who has been cheated financially, taken sexual advantage of, been defamed due to rumors or lies, ignored or rejected under difficult circumstances, promises ignored with loss following, and many more, are some of the conditions when asking for forgiveness is acceptable. However, asking for forgiveness might just open up the wounds again. Sometimes ignored and forgotten is best.

But, and this is a big but, asking forgiveness can go a long way to healing relationships gone awry.