-- July 25, 2007 -- (Read my other columns)

Life and Death in the Minor Leagues

We first met Stu Cole in Visalia , California in 2004.  As a thank-you to their fans, at the end of the Visalia Oaks’ final home game of the season, the A-level minor league club opened the gates separating the stands and the playing field, allowing all who wished to take the field and meet the players and coaching staff. 

Children and young ladies crowded around the most popular players, and though Ron and I managed to call out a “Nice Game” to a few of the guys who’d impressed us with their play that evening, we weren’t particularly interested in lining up to shake hands or get autographs.

But standing by himself near the pitcher’s mound, just taking in the scene, was Stu Cole.  Though they’d lost that night, the Oaks’ Manager looked proud of his guys, the way a dad might be proud of a son who had hustled and tried his best, no matter the outcome.

We approached Stu and introduced ourselves, saying that we were visiting from Chicago .  He seemed pleased that anybody would travel such a distance to see his team.  The conversation soon turned to the game of baseball, of course, and Stu was all too happy to talk to us.  Managing in A-ball was a challenge, he said, because all the best players keep getting promoted.   He'd be back to manage the Oaks the following year, probably with an entirely new squad.  That's how it goes in the low Minors. 

As he talked, his passion for the game was obvious, as was his affection for the young players in his charge.  Finally, Ron and I thanked him for his time, shook his hand, and left the ballpark.

Much later that night, as we enjoyed a cool beverage at one of Visalia 's local establishments, we were quite pleasantly surprised to see Stu walk through the door, followed by 5 or 6 of his players.  Their final night in town before the end of the season, each on to his individual destiny, the boys were out for a little fun and camaraderie.  As he had done on the field earlier, Stu let his guys have the spotlight.  The young athletes danced and made time with the ladies while their Manager kept a watchful eye from the bar, nursing a cold beer.  Ron and I said hello and bought him a round.  We continued our earlier conversation.  This time, the subject turned to life on the road and time spent away from his family.  That was the toughest part of life in baseball, he said; but I got the feeling he wouldn't trade a minute of it. 

We hit the road and continued our trip, which took us to Stockton four days later.  As luck would have it, the Visalia Oaks were the visiting team.  Before the game began, Ron and I made our way to the front row next to the visitors' dugout and called out Stu's name.  He saw us and flashed a big wide grin and laughed.  "What, are you guys following me?" he yelled.  Another laugh. 

Two years later, while researching our 2006 trip, we learned that Stu had been promoted to the AA Tulsa Drillers, a team we happened to be seeing on the road not once, but twice during the trip.  When we called out to Stu from the rail during the pre-game warm-ups in Little Rock , he greeted us with a puzzled “Do I know you?” sort of look.  Nevertheless, he walked toward us and we recalled our previous encounters back in California .  “Oh, yeah,” he said finally, “I remember you guys.”  (I’m not sure he really did remember us, but it was nice of him to say so.) 

Two nights later in Wichita , our calls of “Hey, Stu!” prompted a priceless, wordless response.  He looked at us with a mixture of astonishment and amusement, dropped his shoulders and slowly shook his head.  Then that big grin and laugh again.  He took a moment to say hello, and noted that last time we saw him, the Drillers won, so we must be good luck.  We let him get back to work, and haven’t seen him since that day.  But I like to think he spent the rest of that road trip scanning the stands for those two nuts from Illinois .

I thought about Stu the other day, when I heard the awful news that Tulsa Drillers first base coach Mike Coolbaugh had been struck and killed by a foul ball during a game in Little Rock . 

Coolbaugh was only 35 years old and left behind two sons – 5 and 3 – and a pregnant wife.  Surely there are no words to describe what Coolbaugh's family is going through, and it's impossible not to feel a deep sadness for a young widow; for two boys who will grow up without their father; for the unborn child who will never know one.  My deepest sympathies go out to them, as certainly do the sympathies of all who've heard this story, as little comfort as that may provide.

The tragedy of Coolbaugh's death spreads beyond his family as well.  I think about the batter who hit the fateful line drive, who must be wracked with terrible guilt, though he did nothing wrong.  I think of the fans in attendance who were simply enjoying a pleasant day at the ballpark, only to suddenly become unwilling witnesses to a horrific scene.

And I think about Stu Cole, his big grin and hearty laugh presumably riding the bench for a while, who was standing just across the diamond at third base but could only watch helplessly as his colleague's life was snatched away so suddenly and senselessly. Coolbaugh had only been with the Drillers for a few weeks, but having watched the rapport Stu had with his players in Visalia , I imagine the two men already sharing a bond, forming a mentoring relationship founded on a shared passion for the game of baseball. 

A passion like that should not cost a man his life.  Though there is always some danger of being hit by a ball while on the field, baseball is not inherently a life-threatening pursuit.  There is no sense to be made from this, just a pointless loss.

Stu Cole will go on, of course.  I hope I get a chance to see him again, and I hope he enjoys a long and successful managing career.  But Stu and everyone else touched by this terrible incident will carry its effects for the rest of their lives.

Stu Cole                  Mike Coolbaugh