When I was nearly thirteen, my father died after a lengthy and painful illness.

Within a very short time, I was lost, heading down a road to ruin, full of despair and anger and getting into as much trouble as I could find.

A man who had coached my baseball team a year earlier came and found me, and virtually forced me to play again. He coached me for three more years, and was a major factor in keeping me out of very serious trouble.

I've always thought of him as the man who saved my life, who cared enough about a kid he barely knew to do something to help.

Before this sounds too mushy, this was not a wise and kindly, father knows best kind of guy. He was a hard-nosed, rough talking, abrasive and demanding man. He had fought in Italy in World War 2 and had come home to work as a prison guard.

In many ways, he was a son of a bitch, but I owe him a debt I can never repay.

I really feel horrible for this rating. . .I know that little-league coaches work hard, care, and get not nearly enough respect. . .but my 'community' rating of my little-league coaches has to be low- they were worthless drunks who were above their heads. I fully understand that my experience is not indicative of the overall quality and effort that these people usually put forth. . .