The Project

A Bench Warmer Memory from Bob Cairns

It’s impossible to coach Little League baseball without having benchwarmer stories.

In the late 1980’s when my son was playing Little League in Raleigh, NC, I served as an assistant coach under Francis Combs, who had quite a resume as a baseball player.

Francis had caught Catfish Hunter and the two of them, along with Francis’ twin Freddie, had won a North Carolina high school baseball championship. Jimmy, as they called him, went on to become the Hall of Famer, Catfish Hunter. And Francis and Freddie---no slouches--both played baseball for NC State University, where they took the Wolfpack all the way to Omaha, to the finals in the College World Series.

Freddie. who was a first team All-America defensive back in football, went on to a pro career and Francis ended up playing Double A baseball with the New York Yankees.

My point being that bench coaching with Francis made my job an easy one. All I had to do was just get out of the way and let him coach, until the day that he presented me with a project that was clearly a benchwarmer challenge.

Francis reminded me that we had that little kid Jimmy (we’ll call him) on our bench whose parents insisted that he play baseball and that the kid just didn’t want to play. Well, I knew that but frankly would have rather been mowing the outfield or lining the bases than fielding Francis’ suggestion.

“Cairns, if you can make that kid even show signs of wanting to play, you will have made a major contribution to this team!” Francis said. “If he plays or even shows signs of wanting to play, I owe you a case of beer. No progress you owe me!”

So, here’s how it went. For a week, when hitting practice fungoes to our outfielders, I made sure to hit extras to Jimmy.  When we took batting practice, I gave him at least five to ten extra swings.

And just as I thought I was making some headway, (he had fouled off a few pre-game pitches during BP, and on one occasion during outfield drills had daned to walk to the outfield fence where he picked up a ball and then giggled and bent over and hiked it like a football center between his legs to another “outfielder.”)

That was the evening, by the way, that Francis leaned over on the bench during a tight game and asked me how the “project” was coming along. And before I could answer we heard my “task” say, “Hey, Mr. Combs, do you know what time it is?”  Francis, with one eye on the game and the other on his wristwatch, said, “It’s seven O’clock. Why?”

“Because that ice cream place on Hillsborough Street closes at eight O’clock and I don’t want to miss my chocolate Sunday!”

Francis gave me a “knowing” look, and I just shrugged. What I should have told him was that the bet was off.

I had whiffed on this project. Earlier in the week, during a Saturday morning practice after watching our Jimmy picking dandelions, I walked all the way to centerfield and addressed my little benchwarmer, “Jimmy don’t you want to be a baseball player?” Answer, “Actually, Mr. Cairns, my father is a botanist at NC State University, and I’m thinking either botany or chemistry.”

Now this was on the heels of an intersquad practice game the previous Saturday where I had put my arm around him and personally positioned him in right field----location, location, location---where I knew Francis’ son, Chris Combs, a great player, would be launching drives there in the power alley.

By the time I returned to the infield, I found my charge hugging the rightfield line.  Back I went this time shouting, “Jimmy, you’re supposed to be in right-center field!”

His response. “I know but I just decided to move over here by the foul line----that’s where the shade is!”

Finally, on a warm summer’s evening within earshot of Francis, I sat down next to Jimmy on the bench and throwing in the towel said, “Jimmy, don’t you ever want to get into a game, actually play? Our team has a real shot at winning the city championship.”

And Jimmy said, “Well, Mr. Cairns, I actually kind of like it here on the bench. It’s shady and cool, and I have a nice view of the game. And because I suited up and haven’t quit, my parents take me out for that ice cream afterwards.”

Now as Francis is shaking his head, covering up a huge laugh, Jimmy hits this benchwarmer coach with his punch line, “What I was thinking was that I’d suit up for the games and just hang in for the rest of the year. Then I would come in to that big dinner at the end of the season, pick up my trophy and then maybe just call it quits!”

Francis looked at me and said, “Beer stores on Hillsborough Street stay open real late.”