Life in the Minors
Coaching small-town
baseball has its perksAs the pitching coach for the professional baseball team in minor league baseball's smallest market, there are a few built-in perks:
>> Free use of both of Huntingburg's workout facilities (heck, they gave me keys to the gyms)But the best and most entertaining perk in my two years as a coach with the Dubois County Dragons came about this past week. In just three days this story has become a tale of lore within the walls of our humble clubhouse.>> The occasional free drink at the town's restaurant/sports bar/town gathering place, "The Overtime."
>> A couple of extra slabs of turkey at the Subway.
>> And of course a whole lot of "hellos" and handshakes from the locals who were at the game the night before.
It seems word travels so fast in Dubois County that the locals rarely need bother with the use of an actual phone. Within two days of mentioning to someone that I was looking for a car for the summer, "a functional ride with no frills necessary," I received word from our spunky, Michael J. Fox-ish general manager Don Campbell that one of our boosters had set me up with a car. I was pumped.
Dave Stefftenagel, owner of the sports memorabilia shops to end all sports memorabilia shops in neighboring Jasper, had heard from someone who had heard from another that coach Sagara was looking for a car -- "a functional ride with no frills necessary."
Considering my meager coaching salary, I didn't really know if that would even be possible. But leave it to the close-knit Dragons' community to come through in the clutch.
So I got a ride to Jasper to a car "dealership" that consisted of about 12 cars on a gravel lot, with an office located in a converted trailer. Hey I'm not complaining. This stuff's neat to me. They were doing me a great favor.
Right off the bat I picked out the winner. As I made the walk from the street to the trailer -- I mean dealer office -- I saw my Midwestern mama.
There she was, just kinda, well, there, rusting in the Indiana sun, a brown beauty of an automobile. A 1989 Mazda something -- the model name was kinda worn -- complete with four doors, four seats, four lights, an engine and a roof and racing stripes on the hood. (Hey, it IS Indy 500 season.) For the bargain basement price of $400, I was sold. Hey, it beats walking.
Forget the fact that the dashboard had more cracks than plastic -- or that the driver's side vent, the horn and the cruise control button were just kinda hanging by some exposed electrical wire -- she was mine.
Upon meeting with the dealership owner, a proud sponsor of the Dragons, I got to take a closer look at my "new" car. Funny thing was he couldn't stop laughing the whole time he was trying to sell me on the Mazda.
As I kinda jammed the key into the driver's door ever so eagerly, I began to see that the car had a character all its own. An "El Salvador" sticker running across the width of the back window -- an American flag sticker covering a section of the windshield -- an extra water pump and wiper blades in the trunk -- some green paint stains on the front grill -- and of course -- the clincher -- the Chihuahua doll hanging from the rear view mirror. I was so sold.
Ready for my test drive, I was told to wait while the mechanic gave it a jump. Seems the battery was a little weak. After resuscitating the Mazda, we began our test run to some "Batteries-R-Us" type establishment where every customer receives a free can of soda with the purchase of a new car battery. (I can't make up stuff this funny.) During the test drive, it appeared that the air conditioning in the car actually worked -- much to the surprise of both parties in the automobile. I still can't figure who was more excited about that.
Back at the car lot, I made the commitment to purchase. I figured even if that car got me around Huntingburg for the four months before I return home to Hawaii, I would be getting my money's worth. A handshake and a $100 down payment later I was off -- to the gas station. Seems Indiana car dealers aren't necessarily big on selling cars with any gas in the tank.
So as I rambled out of Jasper back toward home, I stopped off at the local gas station. Right about when I tried to place the gas nozzle into the tank I realized that a family of hornets had nested on the cusp of the tank. Hornets extricated and gas tank full, I made the drive back to my host mother Viola Scherry's house, a lifetime away -- about six miles.
Right about when I realized how hard it is to drive with one's fingers crossed, I discovered that a funny, burning smell was wafting through the air of southern Indiana. "Man, somebody's car is screwed," I thought. "Poor guy."
Upon pulling up next to Viola's Ford Taurus back at the house, I felt like I had been transported to the scene from "Uncle Buck" in which John Candy's car backfired upon parking.
As I cringed and tried to tip-toe away from the car toward the house, hoping not to awaken the sleeping giant, I realized that the burning smell had come from my car.
Using the wooden stick the dealership had left in the backseat to prop the hood open, my housemate -- not versed on the dangers of popping open a hot radiator -- unscrewed the cap before she could heed my warning, only to see about a pint of coolant spewing onto the concrete of the driveway. Well, at least she got me home.
The irony in this all comes in comparing this car-buying process to the one I experienced just five months ago when I signed on a 2002 Toyota Tacoma from Wahiawa Service Motors. No need to elaborate, I'm sure.
By the time I entered the clubhouse the next day, word of my new ride had spread like wildfire. It seemed like each of the 30 or so players we had in training camp wanted to see the car.
Needless to say, it was worth a few laughs. Ever since the initial overheating incident, the car has been, well, functional. The occasional trip to Subway or Wendy's and the daily trip to League Stadium have been a piece of cake. So far, so good.