A Little Bit Like Home

More Than a Throw

This time of year, you expect to hear stories about fathers.

This isn’t one of those stories. At least not in the usual way.

My senior year, I needed a physical education credit to graduate. One of the units we did was golf—in the gym. Using a wiffle ball designed to act like a golf ball, I found a hidden talent, or at least one good enough that Coach Butt took notice. He told me I had a decent drive and should think about going out for the golf team.

The only problem was I didn’t have any clubs. I asked another teacher and coach, Mr. Murphy, if I could borrow his, and he agreed. A few months later, when the weather finally turned and the first day of golf practice arrived, I went to see him. I asked again if I could borrow his clubs, and without looking up, he said yes.

But he didn’t reach for his keys or make any move to head outside. When I mentioned golf practice started that day, he simply said, “I know,” then added, “Track practice starts tomorrow. I need someone to throw shot put and discus. Come out for track, and I’ll take you and teach you how to golf this summer.”

It sounded reasonable to me, so that’s how I ended up on the track team.

There’s a technique to throwing shot put and discus, and while I never had it exactly right, there was some potential. Carrying five-gallon buckets of feed on the farm, strength wasn’t the issue. Technique was. I improved from one meet to the next, but never placed. The challenge was everyone else was improving, too. What might have placed early in the season wouldn’t come close a few weeks later.

One of the things I enjoyed most about track was the time between throws. You got to know the other competitors while you waited your turn. By the end of a few meets, you knew just about everybody. And if you’ve ever been to a small school track meet, you know how many people it takes to make it all work—timers, starters, volunteers, coaches and helpers from multiple schools, many wearing the same colors.

One meet I remember most was in Rock Port. It was a great facility with strong community support, and like us, they wore blue and white. On my first throw there, I did better than the week before, just over 40 feet. As I stepped out of the circle, a man approached me and asked if he could offer a little advice. He had me walk through my throw in slow motion, stopping me to suggest a small adjustment. He worked with me for a few minutes, then asked me to try it on my next throw and see if it made a difference.

I didn’t know who he was, but I thanked him and gave it a try.

On my next throw, I improved by several feet. It was the biggest jump I had made all season. Back with the group, I asked one of the competitors who he was. I pointed him out and learned it was Tony Gaines. His son, Stephen, was the one everyone was trying to catch at every meet. Tony Gaines was his dad—and a coach at Rock Port.

I had good coaches growing up, but I’d never had a competitor’s coach take time to help me, and I don’t think I ever experienced it again. I never won or placed, but I got better, and I enjoyed those meets even more.

I never saw him again, so I never had the chance to thank him. A couple of years later, I learned he had passed away at the age of 52. Over the years, I’ve shared that story with people from Rock Port, and every one of them has said the same thing: that’s just the kind of guy he was. I understand there’s a sportsmanship award given each year in his name, which feels fitting.

Father’s Day has a way of bringing certain people to mind, not always because of a title. Sometimes it’s a moment, a few words or a small act of kindness that stays with you.

We all play a role in people’s lives. Sometimes it only takes a moment.

Tom Brand writes about faith, family, and life in Missouri. He’s learned some of the people who shape you don’t stay long—but they stay with you. Find more at ALittleBitLikeHome.com.