You call him 'Coach Stahl,' but I just call him 'Dad.'

“Snap at your hip.”

“Drive the outside pitch to right field.”

“CHOP the ball into the ground.”

“Be PATIENT on the change up.”

I would say I was a decent-to-good softball player. However, my softball IQ was off the freaking charts, thanks to my father. I am trying to get this man to watch Ted Lasso – someone help me convince him.

We have a white board at work, and every day, someone writes a new daily prompt, and recently, it was “What was your favorite high school memory?” I wrote, “Spending every day with my dad.”

That would probably be any other teenage girl’s worst nightmare, but I loved it.

As a child, I was a pitcher – a pretty good one. But then I stopped growing, and I was better designed to be a second baseman. I have several athletic accolades, but I distinctly remember telling Anthony Marino (THEE jock from Urbana High School who I was ‘in love’ with), “I am pretty average at all sports, but I think people think I am better than I am, because I work my ass off.”

Back to my dad.

Having a parent who is also your athletic coach, I assume, can be a difficult dynamic. For us, it never was. Dad was so great at simultaneously being both “Coach” and “Dad.” He was somehow able to balance the objectivity that comes with being a coach and the subjectivity that comes with being a parent. Even after my worst games or matches, he always found one reason to compliment me. I don’t know how he did it. I could have gone 0-4 at the plate and had two errors in the field, but he always found a way.

My dad recently “retired” but called me a few months ago when he was recruited to be the head softball coach of OUR RIVAL TEAM, Indian Lake. “Do you think I should do it?”

I emphatically exclaimed, “Hell yeah, you should do it.” If these girls receive just a fraction of the love and support and knowledge and passion I did, they will be better for it. You might even catch me wearing some “Lake Rat” apparel.

I will conclude with my favorite story, that I have shared time and time again:

From the time I could walk, my dad was my softball coach. Not in a pushing-me-into-the-sport, pressuring-me-to-perform kind of way. I was born to love sports, to compete. The sun would go down, and I would beg him to hit me just five more ground balls!

I was ten years old, playing for the town of Belle Center – population 813. Our jerseys were teal. I was always a “peanut” as my dad called me, smaller than other kids my age. But my love for the sport was larger than life. My dad was umpiring our home game against our rivals, Zanesfield.

I hit what could have become my first home run. I slid into home, and it was a bang-bang play with the catcher. My dad, the umpire in blue, looked down at the play. He said, “Lauren, were you out or safe?” I said, “Dad, I don’t know.” He raised his fist and exclaimed, “Out!”

The residents of Belle Center boo’d him, and I hustled back to the dug out with tears in my eyes. My own father took away my first home run!

As a dad, he probably wanted more than anything to call his little peanut ‘safe.’ Nearly two decades later, I don’t know if it was the right call or not. But I do know that my dad became the most hated man in Belle Center that day.

For whatever reason, this will always be one of my most vivid memories. My dad may have taken away my home run, but he provided me with something so much more important – a memory that will never fade with time, and a testament of his character.

Fun fact: My favorite part of the game was always base running. It might seem like a strange thing to love, but there were much more talented athletes (and I kid you not), that did not understand the concept of “tagging up.” The sport was a science to me – I knew it intimately. And I was quick as hell. I could run the bases – and understand the running game – like nobody’s business.