Money can motivate. Just ask a 21-year-old baseball player I coached.
In 2009, Hattiesburg was still celebrating the construction of its state-of-the-art youth baseball park at Tatum Park. Thanks to Larry Doleac and many others, kids in our community, white and black, had a new home to play America’s pastime after moving from historic Jaycee Park near Hattiesburg High School. Freshly painted fences, in-ground dugouts and superior lighting all added to the experience of watching children learn how to pitch, catch, hit, run, and — above all — work together as teams to compete and excel in athletics.
On one particular warm muggy night in April, every player on the team showed up, meaning the coaches had the unenviable task of figuring out how to get 14 children in a seven-inning game. Mind you, parents of tender-age tikes are not only super sensitive, but they are hyper-aware of every coaching decision from player position to line-ups.
One young player on our team had little interest in baseball or even being at the game. His mom had not yet realized this fact, so she and the rest of us had to figure that out through trial and error (error, mostly). The youngster had an outstanding personality and always found a clever way to avoid the field by disappearing when it came time for adding substitutes to the game.
On this particular evening, we were in the last inning, and I was determined to find a way to convince this child to play. In practice, he had a habit of wearing the baseball glove on the wrong hand, and despite hitting him 100 pop-ups in the outfield, I never saw him catch a fly ball. So, in between innings, an epiphany hit me. In my pocket was a Ben Franklin, a crisp hundo, at no risk of departing its owner.
For all to hear, I told my reluctant player to run out to right field and, if he caught a ball in the air, the $100 bill in my pocket was his. He smiled like I had never seen and darted to the field while I smiled and knew my money was safe. After two outs, the last batter strolled to the plate for the final at bat. Two strikes later, he swung at an outside ball and hit a towering ball deep to right and headed foul.
Of course, my baseball prospect was not positioned correctly (my fault), and everyone assumed this ball would fall harmlessly to the ground. My incentivized player had other ideas.
Like a bolt of lightning, he tore through the grass at a pace never seen before. Almost a blur, he reached the foul line in full stride, jumped like a deer, went airborne and horizontal, glove outstretched, and majestically followed the white spinning ball into the pocket of his mitt before slamming into the ground.
After a pause of disbelief, the teams on both sides and fans let out a collective and deafening yell of delight. To this day, that was the finest outfield play I ever saw in Dixie Youth baseball. This moment did not change the child’s lack of interest in baseball, but that 9-year-old bolted at me, ball in glove, and retrieved his $100 bill and gained a story for life.
I’ve lost track of that now 21-year-old, but I would not be surprised if he is a very successful young man.
While 1 Timothy does say that money is the root of all evil, on that one humid night, money was the instigator of absolute bliss.
Clark Hicks of Hattiesburg is s a civil litigation attorney. Write him at clark@hicksattorneys.com.
