Sweet saw himself not as a troublemaker but as a catalyst. In his view Macon clung to antiquated views and part of his job was to introduce new ones. Thatâs why heâd done away with the old English curriculum almost immediately; why heâd taken out the individual desks in his room and hauled in those round tables to encourage a flow of ideas; why he had his students read books that forced them to confront new concepts; and why he kept giving them assignments, like the obituary exercise, that encouraged the kids to think about life outside of Macon.
Getting fired? That didnât worry Sweet too much. After all, he was sure he could find another job if he needed to. Hell, he still got calls from the Chicago schools and from as far away as Alaska. What did he have keeping him in Macon, anyway?
6
He Ainât Got Shit
Five days separated the Ironmenâs season opener against Pana and their next game, at home against Assumption. For Steve Shartzer, they were five agonizing, interminable days. Most of the players had shaken off the Pana game after a night. Not Shartzer. After the loss, heâd thrown his glove in the locker room, then gone home to stew in silence. Each afternoon afterward at practice, he reminded his teammates that they just could not make those kinds of errors again, that they must kick the shit out of Assumption.
Sweet noticed this and it both impressed and concerned him. He loved Shartzerâs intensity but it could be almost scary at times. At sixteen, Shartzer was in many respects still that kid chucking tomatoes, racing around the house, and trying to will his way to victory. Stronger and faster than the other kids, he threw as hard as he could during warm-ups, as if trying to impale Dean Otta with each pitch. His mindset, as he put it, was, âHere she comes, boys, right down the middle, the best I got.â He turned batting practice into a competition, endeavoring to make his line drives cleaner than the other boysâ, his home runs more towering.
Despite all his talent, Shartzer remained driven by a sense of inferiority, always trying to prove to somebody, somewhere that he was good enough. Growing up in Elwin, he strived to impress older kids like Doug Tomlinson. In Little League, it was the boys from Macon, which, though a small town itself, was a metropolis compared to Elwin. In Elwin, the Little League coach arrived at practices on a tractor with the baseball equipment perched on the back, and was often forced to recruit from lower age divisions just to field a team. Surrounded by inferior talent, Shartzer had spent much of his youth losing to Macon. These defeats infuriated him, not just because he detested losing in any context but because no matter how well he pitched, his defense often failed him. So while John Heneberry was backed by Mark Miller at second and Ottas at seemingly every base, Shartzer had a few boys who, as he put it, âcouldnât catch a flu during cold season.â In all those years, Steve remembers beating Macon only once.
By the time he reached high school, Shartzer had stopped worrying about his immediate peers and shifted his focus outward. Now he burned to prove to kids from larger towns that he was more than just some hick from Elwin; he was a big-time player. As a freshman, he played three varsity sports and, in the spring, had been recruited for track when the coach, Dale Sloan, saw him play football. After watching in awe as Shartzer sprinted away from a gang of would-be tacklers, Sloan decided the cocky freshman might already be the fastest kid at Macon High. In truth, he was underestimating Steve; soon, Shartzer would prove to be the fastest kid in the county .
On the diamond, Shartzer hit over .300 as a freshman and drove in the winning run in the game that clinched the conference title. He practiced hard, beat himself up when he made mistakes, and took the game more seriously than the other boys.
In many respects,
Getting fired? That didnât worry Sweet too much. After all, he was sure he could find another job if he needed to. Hell, he still got calls from the Chicago schools and from as far away as Alaska. What did he have keeping him in Macon, anyway?
6
He Ainât Got Shit
Five days separated the Ironmenâs season opener against Pana and their next game, at home against Assumption. For Steve Shartzer, they were five agonizing, interminable days. Most of the players had shaken off the Pana game after a night. Not Shartzer. After the loss, heâd thrown his glove in the locker room, then gone home to stew in silence. Each afternoon afterward at practice, he reminded his teammates that they just could not make those kinds of errors again, that they must kick the shit out of Assumption.
Sweet noticed this and it both impressed and concerned him. He loved Shartzerâs intensity but it could be almost scary at times. At sixteen, Shartzer was in many respects still that kid chucking tomatoes, racing around the house, and trying to will his way to victory. Stronger and faster than the other kids, he threw as hard as he could during warm-ups, as if trying to impale Dean Otta with each pitch. His mindset, as he put it, was, âHere she comes, boys, right down the middle, the best I got.â He turned batting practice into a competition, endeavoring to make his line drives cleaner than the other boysâ, his home runs more towering.
Despite all his talent, Shartzer remained driven by a sense of inferiority, always trying to prove to somebody, somewhere that he was good enough. Growing up in Elwin, he strived to impress older kids like Doug Tomlinson. In Little League, it was the boys from Macon, which, though a small town itself, was a metropolis compared to Elwin. In Elwin, the Little League coach arrived at practices on a tractor with the baseball equipment perched on the back, and was often forced to recruit from lower age divisions just to field a team. Surrounded by inferior talent, Shartzer had spent much of his youth losing to Macon. These defeats infuriated him, not just because he detested losing in any context but because no matter how well he pitched, his defense often failed him. So while John Heneberry was backed by Mark Miller at second and Ottas at seemingly every base, Shartzer had a few boys who, as he put it, âcouldnât catch a flu during cold season.â In all those years, Steve remembers beating Macon only once.
By the time he reached high school, Shartzer had stopped worrying about his immediate peers and shifted his focus outward. Now he burned to prove to kids from larger towns that he was more than just some hick from Elwin; he was a big-time player. As a freshman, he played three varsity sports and, in the spring, had been recruited for track when the coach, Dale Sloan, saw him play football. After watching in awe as Shartzer sprinted away from a gang of would-be tacklers, Sloan decided the cocky freshman might already be the fastest kid at Macon High. In truth, he was underestimating Steve; soon, Shartzer would prove to be the fastest kid in the county .
On the diamond, Shartzer hit over .300 as a freshman and drove in the winning run in the game that clinched the conference title. He practiced hard, beat himself up when he made mistakes, and took the game more seriously than the other boys.
In many respects,
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