over at this bizarre parallel universe being created on the next court by this large, ferocious man and said, “Oh God, please don’t ever let me get to the eighth grade.”
AS it turned out, eighth grade was inevitable, though by the time we got to it Fitz had moved on to coach the high school. My own experience of him began the summer after my freshman year, after he quit the Oakland A’s farm system and became the Newman baseball and basketball coach. I was fourteen, could pass for twelve, and of no obvious athletic use. It was the last night of the season. We were tied for first place with our opponents. The stands were packed. Sean Tuohy was on the mound, it was the bottom of the last inning, and we were up 2–1. (These things you don’t forget.) There was only one out, and the other team put runners on first and third, but, from my comfortable seat on the bench, it was hard to get too worked up about it. The luna moths jitterbugged in the stadium lights; the small children frolicked on the other side of the chain-link fence, waiting for foul balls; and there was no reason to believe this night would turn out any different than any other. The first rule of New Orleans life was that, whatever game he happened to be playing, Sean Tuohy won it. Then Fitz made his second trip of the inning to the pitcher’s mound, and all hell broke loose in the stands. Their fans started hollering at the umps: it was illegal to visit the mound twice in one inning. The umpires, wary as ever of being caught listening to fans, were clearly inclined to overlook the whole matter. But before they could, a famous New Orleans high school baseball coach, who carried a rule book on his person, waddled out from the stands onto the field and stopped the game. Him, the umps had to listen to: Sean Tuohy had to be yanked.
Out of one side of his mouth Fitz tore into the high school coach with the rule book—who scurried, rat-like, back to the safety of his seat; out of the other he shouted at me to warm up. The ballpark was already in an uproar, but the sight of me (I resembled a scoop of vanilla ice cream, with four pick-up sticks jutting out from it) sent their side into spasms of delight. Even I was aware that there was something faintly incredible about me in that situation. I represented an extreme example of our team’s general inability to intimidate the opposition. The other team’s dugout needed a shave; ours needed, at most, a bath. (Some unwritten rule in male adolescence dictates that the lower your parents’ tax bracket, the sooner you acquire facial hair.) As I walked out to the mound, their hairy, well-muscled players danced jigs in their dugout, their coaches high-fived, their fans celebrated and shouted lighthearted insults. The game, as far as they were concerned, was over. I might have been unnerved if I’d paid them any attention; but I was, at that moment, fixated on the only deeply frightening thing in the entire ballpark: Coach Fitz.
By then I had heard (from the eighth graders, I believe) all the Fitz stories. Billy Fitzgerald had been one of the best high school basketball and baseball players ever seen in New Orleans, and he’d gone on to play both sports at Tulane University. He’d been a first-round draft choice of the Oakland A’s. He was, we assumed, destined for stardom in the big leagues. But we never discussed Fitz’s accomplishments. We were far more interested in his intensity . In high school, when his team lost, Fitz had refused to board the bus; he walked , in his catcher’s gear, from the ballpark on one end of New Orleans to his home on the other. Back then he’d played against another New Orleans superstar, Rusty Staub. Staub, on second base, made the mistake of taunting Fitz’s pitcher. Fitz raced out from behind home plate and, in full catcher’s gear, chased the terrified future All-Star around the field. I’d heard another, similar story about Fitz and Pete Maravich, the
AS it turned out, eighth grade was inevitable, though by the time we got to it Fitz had moved on to coach the high school. My own experience of him began the summer after my freshman year, after he quit the Oakland A’s farm system and became the Newman baseball and basketball coach. I was fourteen, could pass for twelve, and of no obvious athletic use. It was the last night of the season. We were tied for first place with our opponents. The stands were packed. Sean Tuohy was on the mound, it was the bottom of the last inning, and we were up 2–1. (These things you don’t forget.) There was only one out, and the other team put runners on first and third, but, from my comfortable seat on the bench, it was hard to get too worked up about it. The luna moths jitterbugged in the stadium lights; the small children frolicked on the other side of the chain-link fence, waiting for foul balls; and there was no reason to believe this night would turn out any different than any other. The first rule of New Orleans life was that, whatever game he happened to be playing, Sean Tuohy won it. Then Fitz made his second trip of the inning to the pitcher’s mound, and all hell broke loose in the stands. Their fans started hollering at the umps: it was illegal to visit the mound twice in one inning. The umpires, wary as ever of being caught listening to fans, were clearly inclined to overlook the whole matter. But before they could, a famous New Orleans high school baseball coach, who carried a rule book on his person, waddled out from the stands onto the field and stopped the game. Him, the umps had to listen to: Sean Tuohy had to be yanked.
Out of one side of his mouth Fitz tore into the high school coach with the rule book—who scurried, rat-like, back to the safety of his seat; out of the other he shouted at me to warm up. The ballpark was already in an uproar, but the sight of me (I resembled a scoop of vanilla ice cream, with four pick-up sticks jutting out from it) sent their side into spasms of delight. Even I was aware that there was something faintly incredible about me in that situation. I represented an extreme example of our team’s general inability to intimidate the opposition. The other team’s dugout needed a shave; ours needed, at most, a bath. (Some unwritten rule in male adolescence dictates that the lower your parents’ tax bracket, the sooner you acquire facial hair.) As I walked out to the mound, their hairy, well-muscled players danced jigs in their dugout, their coaches high-fived, their fans celebrated and shouted lighthearted insults. The game, as far as they were concerned, was over. I might have been unnerved if I’d paid them any attention; but I was, at that moment, fixated on the only deeply frightening thing in the entire ballpark: Coach Fitz.
By then I had heard (from the eighth graders, I believe) all the Fitz stories. Billy Fitzgerald had been one of the best high school basketball and baseball players ever seen in New Orleans, and he’d gone on to play both sports at Tulane University. He’d been a first-round draft choice of the Oakland A’s. He was, we assumed, destined for stardom in the big leagues. But we never discussed Fitz’s accomplishments. We were far more interested in his intensity . In high school, when his team lost, Fitz had refused to board the bus; he walked , in his catcher’s gear, from the ballpark on one end of New Orleans to his home on the other. Back then he’d played against another New Orleans superstar, Rusty Staub. Staub, on second base, made the mistake of taunting Fitz’s pitcher. Fitz raced out from behind home plate and, in full catcher’s gear, chased the terrified future All-Star around the field. I’d heard another, similar story about Fitz and Pete Maravich, the
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