with Michael Betteridge

For the second year in a row, I had the honor of broadcasting the Thurmont Little League All-Stars Maryland District 2 tournament. It was amazing to watch this special group of community leaders, parents, and young boys. The time, dedication, and organization that goes into making these tournaments a reality is commendable. We salute the umpires, the scorekeepers, the scoreboard operators, the public address announcers, and the myriad of volunteers who braved the scorching heat and took time out from their busy lives to make young folks’ dreams come true, not to mention the coaches and parents. I was humbled to walk that journey with them over the five games that led to the championship game. I am sure there are numerous reasons that motivate their service. There is one that keeps me coming back.

As I watched the boys arriving at the games, dragging their bats and bags and gear across the parking lots, it catapulted me back in time to my youth. I remember those hot summer days, filled with hopes and dreams of victory. We were regaled with tales of faraway places and legends of little leaguers who had come before us. We arrived in our mom’s or dad’s cars to strange fields that bore little resemblance to our home turf. We were awed by really big kids our age—twice our size—confident, smiling, and laughing as we walked by. We were humbled by beautifully manicured ballparks with press boxes and large crowds, and, for a moment, we just wanted to be back at the Lion’s Den in Burtonsville, safe and secure in our dugouts. Because our coaches had been there before us, they recognized our trepidations. They immediately called us all into the dugout for the “talk.” They reminded us that the game is played by a team. No single player, regardless of size or talent, can win a game. It takes everyone doing their job and knowing that the kid next to you is going to do his. I’ve heard a lot of motivational pregame coach speeches in my time. I only remember a few. None of them were from games we lost. I had many coaches in my Little League journey, including my father, who was one heck of a ballplayer in his own right. My brother and I would argue over who would catch for him when he pitched in our neighborhood games in the cow pasture. His fastball was so potent that your catching glove hand stung for the rest of the afternoon. Neither one of us wanted to be behind the plate. My dad was an introvert, and since he was an only child, he really didn’t understand kids. Because of that, he wasn’t a great coach. It was tough playing baseball when your father was the coach. I respected what he was doing and the reason he was there, but the added pressure was hard, especially when your dad was such a good ballplayer. But I still look back on those games with him and remember that it was good to have a coach who was my dad. I was proud of my father and his athletic talents. My teammates often reminded me of how good he was. That felt good, too. The Little League coach I remember the most was Coach Ruppert. He understood boys. He knew how to get in our heads. He had 11 children— eight boys, three girls, one set of twins. I grew up with the Ruppert twins, Steve and Greg. I met them in the first grade at Burtonsville Elementary when we moved there in 1958. His classmates were the only ones that could tell the twins apart. They were identical twins but completely different in demeanor. They were both excellent athletes. Steve was outgoing and gregarious, and Greg was quiet and reserved. And if it wasn’t enough to have his talented sons on his baseball team, Coach Ruppert recruited their cousin, Mike, as our pitcher. That kid could throw a hardball, and he could hit, too! I remember big Billy Hart. He would crush every pitch that came across the plate. His problem, however, was getting around the bases. He didn’t run, he loped. He was always such a happy guy. I remember one game at a field with no fence. Billy smacked the ball so far, the ball was as far away past the outfielder as home plate, and as Billy ran toward first, it became obvious that he wasn’t even going to make it to second. Coach Ruppert shouted, “Run, Billy, run,” and Billy flashed that big, lovable pearly white grin back at the coach, which only slowed him down more. The whole team laughed out loud. He was thrown out at second. Everyone else on the team would have had an “in-the-park” homer.

We went all the way to the Maryland State tournament and lost to an Eastern Shore team. All games eventually ended back at Seibel’s Dairy for a team ice cream. Seibel’s was our sponsor. Win or lose, we got ice cream! Back in the early 60s, Seibels was just a little ice cream and hamburger stand on Route 198 in sleepy little Burtonsville. The ice cream was local, and so were the burgers! You don’t see much of that anymore. Seibel’s had a huge dairy farm in Spencerville, Maryland. I grew up within a mile of the farm, across a 10-acre thoroughbred racehorse paddock. We had a big dog, named Comet. He was part Chow and part Lab. One day, while eating dinner, we heard a strange clunking sound coming up the back metal porch steps. It was Comet dragging the entire leg and hindquarter of a steer. He had secured his own dinner! My Dad gasped and said, “Well, there goes our Little League sponsorship!” He ordered me quickly to help him carry the leg to the car. We dropped it in the back of the family station wagon, and Dad said, “Hang on.” We tore up the road to Seibel’s farm. As we approached the barns behind the main house, we saw several men standing looking curiously at us with work aprons on. I recognized one of them as Tom Seibel, Sr. Tom also owned the local hardware store. My dad threw the wagon in park, opened the back wagon gate, and pulled the leg out onto the ground. He looked seriously at Tom Seibel and said, “Tommy, how much do I owe you for my dog killing your steer?” My dad was a city boy. He didn’t know much about farms or farming. All the men laughed and laughed and, finally, when they caught their breath, Mr. Seibel smiled at my dad and said, “Terry, we were butchering the cattle, and your dog grabbed a leg out of the pile and ran across the cow pasture with it. That’s an impressive animal you own. You might want to feed him more.” It’s all gone now. The Lions Den, Seibel’s, many of my teammates… all gone by the way of houses, developments, and age. But watching those Thurmont All-Stars brought it all rushing back, and I grinned as I walked into the dugout at their last game. I told them to hold their heads up high, to be proud of what they had done, and to never forget this special time together. And then I said, “Thanks, boys.” I doubt that they understood what I was really thanking them for, but I did.