A coach is part teacher, part parent, part student, part mentor, and part guru. He must possess a stern hand and a comforting touch-and the wisdom to discern when each is needed. Each decision he makes is a part of a perilous high wire act that can propel a team forward or send a season tumbling downward. But when does a coach truly become a coach? Is it after some athletic director looks across the desk, offers his hand, and says, "Congratulations, you've got the job? " Is it after that first win? That first championship? Or is it when all those nagging questions in the back of the mind finally stop nagging? Scott Illiano, head baseball coach of the West Essex High School Knights, chronicles his incredible journey from waiter in a chain restaurant to veteran coach in Our Time. Discover how an unproven coach and a patchwork group of underdogs battle injuries, biting cold temperatures, and fierce competition in their quest to win the Greater Newark Tournament, the oldest and most prestigious baseball tournament in the state of New Jersey. Twenty kids and four coaches share a dream and a whole lot of heart. Through their journey, in victory and defeat, struggle and success, readers will find out when a coach becomes a coach. Carraturo was born, raised and still resides in Tuckahoe, an Italian-Irish community in Westchester County, New York. He has spent over twenty-five years working on Wall Street. Married with three daughters, he is also an avid poker player.
Our Time
A High School Baseball Coach's JourneyBy Scott IllianoiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Scott Illiano
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4620-2756-9Contents
Foreword.......................................................................ixIntroduction...................................................................xiii1. A Tiny Three-by-One-Inch Ad Can Alter Your Life Forever.....................12. Meet the Parents............................................................93. Daddyball...................................................................194. Let Me Tell You a Story.....................................................305. Cancers.....................................................................356. Prom Night..................................................................447. A New Balance...............................................................538. The Road to Heaven Goes through Seton Hall..................................599. Impossible Is Nothing!......................................................6710. It's in Our Covenant.......................................................7511. Two Slings and a Neck Brace................................................8212. Who's on First?............................................................8813. Safe Is Death!.............................................................10214. Rise Above It..............................................................10715. Poodles....................................................................11416. Torn Asunder...............................................................12517. You've Still Got Value.....................................................15018. It's Impossible, But I'll Do It!...........................................15719. If You Have a Big Enough Why...............................................16520. Cuidado de los Detalles (Attention to Details).............................17721. He's Got the Same Agent as A-Rod...........................................19322. Do You Believe in Miracles?................................................19723. How Am I Not Wet?..........................................................20224. Sunblock for a Night Game?.................................................21125. The Struggle Is within the Self............................................21326. Hold onto the Rope!........................................................21727. Good Luck, Mr. Gorsky......................................................23228. The Journey Is Better Than the Inn.........................................23729. Swimming Upstream..........................................................24530. It Will Be Difficult. It Will Be Worth It!.................................256Around the Horn: Seton Hall Preparatory School.................................261West Essex High School.........................................................263Glossary.......................................................................265List of Quoted Sources.........................................................267About the Author...............................................................269Acknowledgments................................................................271
Chapter One
A Tiny Three-by-One-Inch Ad Can Alter Your Life Forever I suppose if I had gotten the job I wanted at Montgomery Ward, I never would've left Illinois. —Ronald Reagan Fortieth President of the United States
"Corner!" rang out from the hallway. My mind was somewhere back in Melbourne, Florida, where I had recently attended a tryout with the Florida Marlins. It was March of 1994.
I'm not sure which came first: the smell of the sizzling fajitas or the beckoning sound of "Corner!"
Screaming "corner" was a mandate from the higher-ups at a well known chain restaurant where I worked so the waiters and waitresses could avoid a collision while carrying fajitas. The management had insisted that servers sprint the fajitas out to the customer's table so the sizzle could be appreciated—but we'd better not bump into anyone along the way!
"Corner!"
"Eighty-six the quiche."
"Ixnay this."
"Ixnay that."
"What station are you? Early or late?"
"Pick up forty-eight; I'm in the weeds!"
How much of this could I really take? How much longer could I listen to the lingo and put up with obnoxious customers? How much longer could I tolerate the two-headed managers? You know the kind. They had one set of rules for me and another set for the female waitresses. These restaurant managers had a key principle that they adhered to in their management style: the prettier they thought you were, the fewer rules you had. Amy and Lisa, for example, had carte blanche, while I would have to make sure there wasn't a drop of ketchup on the bottom of the Heinz caps before getting signed out for the evening.
"Hey, Scott!" Collin, the manager, screamed out.
"Yeah, Collin," I answered.
"Scott, I don't think that seventy-year-old woman really asked for the Ranger game to be put on the TV near your section. If your food's not up yet, go run someone else's."
"You really think she's seventy, Collin?" I quipped.
"At least!" he yelled in disdain.
"Well, she might be seventy, Collin, but she was just saying `Mess is flyin' out there tonight.'"
"Mess" of course was Mark Messier. The New York Rangers were my team, and as a long-suffering fan, I believed in "The Curse." Legend had it that the Rangers' founder, Tex Rickard, had burned the deed to the old Madison Square Garden inside the Stanley Cup back in 1940. From that point on, they were supposedly jinxed, and I, for one, believed it. But there was something different about Messier. He wasn't like all those other big-name guys who would eventually turn into a bust. He had a look about him—and a tone in his voice. He talked openly about "slaying the dragon," which was his assurance he would end the curse. And, boy, could he play! For the first time in my life, he made me think that the Rangers actually could win. Messier's belief that curses simply didn't exist had a profound impact on me for years to come.
At my tender age of twenty-two, part of my motive for waiting tables was to pay for my mini-season ticket plan at the Garden. If this were to be the Ranger's year, I wasn't going to miss it. My other motive was that I had graduated from Ramapo College in December, and I didn't have a clue what I really wanted to do. Slowly, I was putting together a résumé. I convinced myself that I was entitled to enjoy the spring, and then I would get serious about finding a real job. In the meantime, I would keep hanging out with my friends, chase after girls, and follow the New York Rangers.
Some of that was my way of dealing with what had just happened in Melbourne.
Former University of Florida and current New York Yankees organizational guru, Pat McMahon, once said, "The game is always taken from you before you are ready."
The game was about to be taken from me. Hundreds of players had attended the Marlins' tryout in Melbourne. We had all run the sixty-yard dash and thrown from our positions. Only twenty-two players advanced to the next phase of the tryout. I was included in that group.
One of the coaches called us in and said, "Some of you are really close to getting signed, right here and now, depending on what you show here!"
I was pumped!
We then took batting practice on the field. I had a pretty good round, spraying several line drives into the gaps of the outfield. After batting practice, we were divided into teams and played a game. At the end of the game, two players were signed, while the rest of us were sent packing.
I had done well in every phase of the tryout—running, throwing, batting practice—and also collected a few hits in the game. The coach pulled me aside and explained the difference between "performance and potential." He complimented me on my performance but explained that they did not project my potential. He also explained that on the flip side, another player may not have had a great performance during the tryout, but they might see something in him that made them project his potential. That was it. They didn't project that I would ever make it to Joe Robbie Stadium, the home of the Marlins. My career was over.
I had played baseball my whole life. When you're on your way up, there is always hope. Then, when you get cut at a tryout and you have already played the four years allowed as a college student, it suddenly becomes a very personal moment. I took my bag and headed down the road to hail a cab. As I walked out, I saw a young Carl Everett and asked him to sign a ball for me. Reluctantly, he did. Then, I saw Gary Sheffield back a sparkling red Mercedes Benz into his parking spot.
I wish I was one of those guys. Must be nice! I said to myself.
When my cab dropped me off at my hotel, I opened the door, dropped on the bed, and cried my eyes out. Why? Because, whether I was ready or not, a game that I had given my life to had been taken from me. Like it or not, there were no more games left to be played. So what next?
My degree was in business marketing. Word on the street was that if you wanted to go anywhere in marketing, you would need a master's degree. I figured I'd have to go back to school.
Entry-level salary at that time was around thirty to thirty-five thousand dollars, but to me that was a lot of money. I think what I wanted then, more than a career, was a car. I wanted a nice new car with power everything. With thirty thousand dollars I could afford a brand-new BMW as long as I kept living in my mother's basement—at least that was how my twenty-three-year-old mind figured it. Waiting tables would hold me over for the moment, and pretty soon I'd begin sending out résumés.
Within a few months I would have a full-time job, as well as my new car.
My alarm sounded. I woke to the smell of bacon drifting throughout the house. There was nothing better than my mom's turkey bacon on a Sunday morning, especially after a long night in Hoboken. I overheard my brother and father talking.
"Yeah, Dan, the Yankees are on TV in spring training today," my father said.
"I think they're gonna be good this year. They gotta win one before Mattingly retires, ya know," my brother Dan replied.
I walked into the kitchen.
"Hey, Scott, what time did you get in last night?" Dad asked.
I gave my patented, "Oh, one."
Whenever my parents asked me, "one" was the time I got home, whether it was one, three, or later. That's what I always said, and over time, it became a bit of a joke.
"What time do you have to be at work?" my dad asked.
"My shift starts at three," I answered.
As I thumbed through the Sunday Star-Ledger, my mother handed me a turkey bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich.
"I don't think you got home at one, Scott," she said. "Scott!" she repeated.
I was in a deep stare.
"Look at this. West Essex needs an assistant baseball coach," I exclaimed.
"What?" my dad asked as I held up the paper.
There it was: a tiny three-by-one-inch ad that read, "Wessex Needs Baseball Coach."
"That's odd; high schools start up on the eighth of March. How could they be looking for a coach when they're already three weeks into the season?" I asked.
"Maybe something happened," my mom answered.
"I'm going to call first thing tomorrow morning," I stated. I figured I'd rather coach baseball every day than put myself through the torture of waiting tables three nights a week.
As I clipped out that tiny little ad, I didn't know what my chance was of getting the job. And so I could not have known that it would change my life forever.
Within a few days, I was granted an interview. I went to West Essex with the mere hope of not having to wait on tables anymore.
West Essex was located in North Caldwell, New Jersey, which bordered my hometown of Cedar Grove. On the short drive over, I pondered how badly we used to beat them when I was in high school. They weren't very good back then.
As I walked toward the entrance, I looked up at the white letters on top of the building that read "West Essex Senior High School."
Have they ever won a GNT? I asked myself.
"Wow! In all these years, I don't think they've ever won the GNT," I answered out loud.
The GNT was the Greater Newark Tournament. It was the oldest and most prestigious tournament in the state of New Jersey. We had won it back in 1988 when I was a junior at Cedar Grove High School. I don't know why, but all I kept thinking while looking up at those white letters was that if this school hadn't won a GNT championship, I would like to help them do so.
I went inside and interviewed with Athletic Director Tom Pengitore. Then I met with the head coach, Mike Christadore. Mike was a straight shooter, a disciplinarian who stood for the right thing.
During the interview, we seemed to hit it off, but when more than a week went by, I assumed that they had hired someone else with more experience. I'd just keep waiting on tables, I figured.
About ten days later, Mike called me.
"Scott, you're it. You're hired. You gotta come in and see Peng," he said.
I pumped my fist in the air.
"Um, okay, thanks. I'll be right down."
When I arrived, Tom Pengitore, who went by the name "Peng," explained a small stipulation to the position.
"The school really needs substitute teachers. They want me to bring in someone who can sub. Are you okay with that? We'll get you fingerprinted and all that," he said.
"Yeah, sure," I answered.
Before I knew it, I was substitute teaching too—and loving every minute of it.
It's amazing to me how life works sometimes, especially when you don't get what you want. I had wanted to play for the Florida Marlins. Instead, after having such a positive experience coaching and substitute teaching that spring, I was completely sold. This was what I wanted to do! The BMW could wait. I was going to go back to school to study to become a teacher. I imagine that if I had toiled around in the minor leagues for a few years I might have ended up in teaching at some point, but probably not in the same place. Getting sent home by the Marlins put me on a fast-track course to develop as a person and a professional, and it presented me with opportunities that might not have been there at a later time.
My schedule was full. I would substitute teach during the day, coach after school, and attend Montclair State University at night as a student in the education department's Teacher of the Handicapped Program. A year later, I became a full-time teacher's aide and worked side by side with established teachers in a variety of subjects. The learning experience was tremendous. I developed a philosophy that the best teachers are the best learners. Furthermore, the best learners would be borrowers, or thieves, of great information.
After two years serving as Mike Christadore's assistant coach, an unexpected opportunity arose. Christadore was a teacher in the business department and a fantastic one at that. Toward the end of the 1995 school year, he learned that although he was a well-respected teacher who had earned tenure, there would be a reduction in force within the business department. Since he had the fewest years of service within the department, he would not be rehired for the following school year. Within weeks, he had taken a full-time teaching position at another school. Realizing how difficult it would be to run a baseball program while teaching outside the district, he decided to resign as head baseball coach.
I didn't expect this opportunity to come up so early in my career. I immediately sent in my cover letter and résumé with the hope of being hired as the next West Essex head baseball coach.
The process seemed to take forever. I was still only twenty-four years old, and I supposed that some members of the board of education and administration had questions about my age and lack of experience. However, Tom Pengitore was in favor of hiring me. He had seen something in me that made him feel confident that I was ready—in spite of my youth and in spite of the fact that I was not yet a full-time teacher within the school.
As the weeks and months went by, I hadn't heard any official word as to whether or not I would get the job. I kept hoping and praying, but it was January of 1996, and I had yet to even interview for the position. Finally, during winter recess in February, Pengitore said he would like me to meet with him and the school principal, Jim Corino.
Both meetings went well. When I met with Corino, he informed me that he was willing to support Pengitore's endorsement of me, and that I would be formally approved as the new head baseball coach at the next board of education meeting.
As I walked down the path to my car, I was walking on air. I couldn't believe it. I had officially become the West Essex head baseball coach.
I continued to serve as a teacher's aide during the day, coach after school, and attend graduate school in the evenings. Finally, after two and a half years, I earned my teaching certificate. Coincidentally, two teaching positions in the special education department at West Essex opened up at that time. I was hired for one of them. Luckily, the school also had an assistant ice hockey position, which I was hired for as well. I was eagerly preparing for these opportunities and striving to learn more as I went.
At or around this time, on the campus of Montclair State, was when I first met Dr. Rob Gilbert, a renowned sports psychologist and one of the most influential people in my life. Dr. Gilbert had a regular hotline message called Success Hotline, and his creative and witty motivational messages were updated daily for free. I couldn't believe it. Each day I would call and jot notes down in my "success" notebook. To this day, I still call his hotline, and I have stacks of notebooks to prove it.
By calling Dr. Gilbert's hotline, I would also learn of other free hotlines such as David Denotaris's Do You Have a Minute?, Ed Agresta's Power Thoughts, and Coach Mike Tully's Pep Talk. Of the thousands of motivational messages that I heard, two of Dr. Gilbert's simple premises would serve as a guide for my future: 1) You already have all the ability that you need inside you. All you need is the proper training. 2) Success leaves clues! Find out what successful people are doing and imitate them. Do whatever it is that they do.
I would take those two premises to heart—in my teaching, in my coaching, and in my studies—and some might say that I became eccentric over them.
I would religiously drive to Cherry Hill, New Jersey, for the Be the Best You Are Baseball Coaches Clinic. I met Skip Bertman (Louisiana State University), Pat McMahon (New York Yankees), Rick Jones (Tulane), Rod Delmonico (Tennessee), Trey Hillman (New York Yankees), Gary Denbo (New York Yankees), Ron Polk (Mississippi State), Jim Wells (Alabama), Rick Peterson (New York Mets), Mike Martin (Florida State), Fred Hill (Rutgers), Bill Springman (Minnesota Twins), and too many others to name. I wrote so many notes that my hand hurt. The old adage that the shortest pen is better than the longest memory became a way of life for me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Our Timeby Scott Illiano Copyright © 2011 by Scott Illiano. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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