Four for five years ago, I joined the Sledgehammers, a co-ed rec league softball team in Vancouver. I didn’t have a team that year, and they took me on despite the negatives: I live in the US, I work nights, my availability was spotty, and I’m not a great ballplayer. The team’s coach was a guy named Floyd, who I befriended in previous seasons playing for another team. Floyd and I bonded over being amongst the handful of black men in the region, much less in the league.

Seriously, we would joke about how one more of us would constitute a gang-related activity.

Floyd called me a “reclamation project” because I was a big guy with an underwhelming bat and stone hands, far removed from my athletic prime. I was learning how to play outfield and recovering from a back injury (read: not a good ballplayer). Over the next couple of seasons, he helped me improve my skills by teaching aspects of playing right field and not busting my chops too hard when I—inevitably—would screw up. Moreover, the ‘Hammers were welcoming, helpful, and equally forgiving. I would occasionally ask Floyd when he would suit up and play, and he almost always said, “Next year, when my knees are better.”

The ‘Hammers are a team that embraces the idea that softball is supposed to be fun. The nicknames on the backs of the jerseys are largely self-inflicted, from one player calling herself “G-Raff” due to her height, to another player calling himself “Grandpa Joe,” despite being younger than me. I call myself “The Big Hurt,” which makes sense if you follow baseball, but if you don’t, I’ll simply tell you that it’s because I’m big and injured a lot. Floyd’s #63 was labeled “Bionic Bro,” and his previous jersey, #42, was nicknamed “D-Bear.” Bionic Bro was a reference to various joint surgeries. I have no idea what D-Bear was about.

My first couple of years on the team saw us steadily improve under Floyd’s guidance, with the help of his very pregnant second-baseman-turned-lieutenant, Bari (#56, “Ginja Ninja”) and her husband, John (#77, “J-Ro”). Floyd took a step back last season due to work conflicts, and Bari took on the role of player/coach. We played hard, had fun, and won more than we lost.

Earlier this year, Floyd passed away suddenly, a loss that deeply affected our team, the league, and basically everyone who crossed his path. We never actually said out loud that we would play this season in his honor, but his #42 hung in the dugout every game. This isn’t a movie; we didn’t win every game. But we played hard, had fun, and won more than we lost. Last weekend was our end-of-season tournament. Floyd’s #42 hung in the dugout every game, and we all bought black patches with his number on it. We played hard, had fun, and won more than we lost. We finished third in the tournament this year and were a better team than last year, or the year prior. Bionic Bro would be proud, not just of how we played, but for how the team came together, how close we became, and how much we all loved each other. We became this awesome family that enjoys each other’s company, shares each other’s successes, cheers each other’s accomplishments.

This is a tribute to a good friend that comes far too late, largely because I don’t share personal stuff like this. But I raise a glass to him, the ‘Hammers raise our glasses to him, and whether we knew him with #42 or #63, as D-Bear or Bionic Bro, I’m confident that we are all proud to be even a small part of his legacy.

And we’ll win it all next year.

#2018 #blog #softball #baseball #tribute #friends