I could not ignore the sullen, pensive face of the teenager sitting alone in the stands behind home plate. Handing a fungo bat over to an assistant coach, I made my way to where the young lad was sitting. 

Seeing me approaching, he quickly shoved a dilapidated old baseball glove behind his back on the bleacher seat, as if hiding it from my view. 

"Are you here to try out?" I asked him. "No, I guess not," he replied with hesitation. "Well I noticed you have a glove with you and you're welcome to join the guys on the field if you like," I said in return. 

Without taking his eyes off the activity on the diamond he repeated, "No thanks, I don't think so."

"Okay, it's up to you. What's your name anyway and how old are you?" I quizzed further. "I'm Gary and I'm 14," was the answer.

"Well, maybe we'll see you again Gary, but if you change your mind..." I was interrupted in mid-sentence with the almost inaudible: "I'm not very good!" 

"I was not asking how good you are, Gary...Look, I have to get back to the field, but stick around and after we're finished the practice I would like to see just how 'not very good' you really are," I added rather sharply. 

It took close to an hour to complete the mid-season drills I was conducting with the minor baseball bantam team I was coaching at the time. As the players were changing their spikes and gathering up equipment, I noticed Gary had moved a little closer to the dugout with his hand now stuffed awkwardly in his baseball glove.  

"Hey Gary," I shouted. "Come on in and we'll play a little catch." "Okay," he said, slowly making his way around the backstop screen. "But remember, I'm not very good." 

My first 40-foot toss to the lanky teen hit him squarely in the chest without even touching his glove. His return throw to me sailed a good three feet over my head. Gary was right. He was not very good. 

Not wanting to prolong the agony, I invited him to sit down for a chat. In the ensuing conversation I learned that Gary's father had died of a sudden heart attack when he was only 11 years old, a story eerily similar to mine. He lived with his elderly grandmother, mother and younger sister. He always wanted to play baseball but the opportunity never presented itself.

Touched by his story, I suggested that I was willing to work with Gary individually for a week or two and that he might even be able to join the team at some stage. He seemed to be encouraged by the prospect. 

Quite frankly, I did not know what I was letting myself in for. It would be a painful period that was in store for the two of us, literally and figuratively. Gary would join me for one-on-one workouts whenever I could manage the time. We played catch and pepper primarily, just to get him comfortable with fielding and making contact with the bat. 

After the third session he was actually catching one of five fly balls I was hitting to him from a distance of about 90 feet. After several weeks he was showing enough improvement that I felt it would do no harm to expose him to team practices.

He began to bond with the other players (I guess they did not feel threatened by him) and I thought, what the heck, why not let him sit on the bench for our final three games of the season. I even scrapped up a make-do uniform for him.

I could not help but notice that Gary was starting to walk a lot taller. He showed up for our final game pounding his fist into a brand new Spalding Pro glove purchased by his mother at an end-of-season clearance sale. The team jumped to an early three-run lead in the game and added a couple of insurance runs in the 5th inning. 

That's when I started to toy with the dangerous idea of putting Gary out in right field to start the 7th and final inning. After all, we had a safe five-run lead over the visiting team...didn't we?

In the bottom of the 6th I pondered in earnest the pros and cons of letting Gary into the game and finally threw caution to the wind. I just thought I owed it to him after all his hard work and dedication.  "You're in right field," I announce to the figure sitting at the end of the bench. "Me? Are you sure?" replied an obviously shocked Gary. "Yes," I barked back, "and if you don't move now I'm apt to change my mind." 

I was proud and nauseous, all at the same time, as I watched Gary trot onto the field, stopping momentarily to pull up sox that had fallen down around his ankles.

An infield single, followed by two walks and an RBI out gave the opposition its first run in the game. A second run scored on a passed ball. Another walk and a scratch single loaded the bases again. Just like that, our once comfortable lead was in jeopardy.

I simply crossed my fingers and refused to think of what fate might have in store for us with the tying run on first base and the potential go-ahead run at the plate. Adding pressure to the moment was the up-to-now forgotten fact that first place in the final league standings was resting on the outcome of the game. 

As luck would have it, the next batter was a left hand hitter and I had a lefty throwing in the bull pen. I called time, went to the mound and congratulated my starting pitcher on doing so well for us. Assuring him that we would preserve the win, I took the ball and made the pitching change.

Our relief pitcher worked a 2-2 count on the batter and suspense mounted in the ball park. The next pitch was just a little inside and the batter took a healthy cut at it, lofting the ball high into (you guessed it) right field where our boy Gary was camped.

Gary took a couple of steps forward and then a whole bunch of them quickly backward, stumbling in the process. The ball seemed to be suspended in the cloudless blue sky. My heart stopped completely.

As the ball descended, Gary seemed to be surrounding it. He raised his new Spalding Pro in stiff-arm fashion and PLOP! the ball hit in the webbing and miraculously stayed there. GAME OVER!

His teammates stormed into right field and mobbed Gary, hoisting him to their shoulders. The hometown crowd went wild. The hero for this day pumped his fist and waved vigorously in acknowledgement.

When the celebrations subsided, Gary broke away from the crowd and made his way over to me. We hugged. "Thanks for everything!" he said. That was all I needed to hear. I was momentarily speechless. There was a lump in my throat that stopped anything from coming out.

This was one of those priceless special occasions that make the time and effort spent in coaching all worthwhile.

I moved away a short time later and lost track of Gary. I wonder where he is today and if he remembers?