Power resides in the unlikeliest places
"Hit the ball," my Little League coach yelled.
I didn't, which left me at 2-2.
"Time," he called to the pimple-faced high school umpire in the Pink Floyd shirt.
The umpire raised his hand to signify I was in trouble.
Lloyd walked to the plate, shaking his head. Lloyd had been my coach for two years, and I knew he meant business. I didn't find out he'd been a Green Beret until about 30 years after Little League, which was good because if I'd known it at that moment, I may have peed my baseball pants.
"Put your foot back," he said, then watched me move my foot. "No, the other one."
He grabbed my leg in front of what seemed like half the town - including my mom, dad, grandma and my sisters who'd tease me later - and moved it to wherever he saw fit.
"There," he said, standing back to take a look at my stance. "Get that back elbow up."
I did, slowly enough that a nod from Lloyd was all I needed to freeze it.
"Good," he said before walking back to the dugout. "Now, hit the ball."
The umpire said "play ball" in a squeaky Bobby Brady voice and hit the button on the big, red pitching machine that would hurl a baseball dangerously close to my head.
I hit the ball. But, then again, I really didn't have any choice. Lloyd told me to.
Some people in small towns lug around a lot of power.
Like the town's insurance agent, who sponsored the team we were playing. He was also the town's real estate agent and ran the funeral home. So, if someone he insured died in a house fire, that'd be like having your birthday, Christmas and Halloween all on the same day.
My bus driver had a lot of power. He not only got us to school safely, he was the city's public works man who made sure the potholes were filled, the toilets would have someplace to flush, and our water wouldn't make us sick. So when E.J. told us to "sit down and shut up," we did.
My first grade teacher figured our parent's income tax returns, the town's mechanic ran the roller rink and the butcher balanced the city's books.
Yeah, power.
My coach had a lot of power, too.
The teams Lloyd coached always won. He was the town's only barber. And, he was the mayor.
In a town bigger than the 883-person city we lived in, he'd have been three people.
But, right then, he was just my coach.
"Mike," Lloyd yelled at his son who stood at the plate waiting for the first pitch. "Hit the ball."
Mike did, and I scored.
We won that game. But, then again, we won most of our games.
About 25 years later, the town elected me mayor.
I wasn't the barber, I wasn't the funeral director, I wasn't the bus driver, I wasn't the accountant and I wasn't a Little League coach.
But I had some power, too. I was the bartender.
Yeah, people in small towns carry a little more weight than what you see. So, don't cross us. We might not serve you a beer.
