Squirrel Hunt or Baseball Practice?
By Jeff Kurrus
Days like today, when it’s 60 degrees, low wind, and still squirrel season, remind me of my pre-Nebraskaland days when I was a baseball coach. When I, the serious leader of young men I was, would find a reason to end practice prematurely so that I could take my .22 Ruger out in the woods instead of hitting more ground balls to my infield.
“Turner, what are you doing?” I would say, knowing that Turner could take it and that he wouldn’t mind spending the last hour or two of his day doing something fun instead of being pummeled with short hops by me. “Look, if you’re not going to give me more effort, then we’re done here.” Another grounder booted.
“That’s it, that’s it. Get off my field,” I’d say, watching my players walk to pick up gear. “If you’re not all off the field in two minutes, then we’ll run until dark.” At this point is when the praying began. Praying that Watson didn’t spill a bucket of balls or that Guy didn’t forget all his glove, hat, socks, car keys, or whatever else he was liable to forget on a day-to-day basis.
Because if these unfortunate moments did occur, my chance to stalk squirrels on those late afternoons would be halted, replaced instead by wind sprints. Who wants to do wind sprints? More importantly, who wants to watch others do wind sprints instead of sitting in a patch of quiet woods, watching grays scamper from evergreens to hardwoods, and from oaks back to pines?
And while these days seem like they are a million years away, I can’t help but wonder just a little if we might have been a better team if the coach didn’t forgo practice and conditioning for random small game hunts. Hmm?
Okay, I’m done wondering…or caring. I wouldn’t trade those afternoons for anything, and I’m sure those boys wouldn’t either.
Jeff – I know you’re just down the hall from me, but you seem to live with a phone plugged into your ear. I don’t know much about baseball, but played it when I was young, lots, at the lowest possible level. Harmon Killebrew being my hero. Everyone loved Mantel and Maris. Yeah, you all know how ancient I am. I got a baseball signed by Goose Gossage at the Broken Bow One Box pheasant hunt deal some years back, for my uncle Ralph, a real baseball player, third baseman, would have beat the snot out of Goose in a fist fight any day of the week. I think I would have liked Killebrew better than Gossage, but who knows.
You would have liked him, my uncle. He worked me and worked me at baseball, but, alas I had little aptitude. Anyway, just wanted to write that squirrel hunting was/is good stuff. We started talking about it this afternoon, but then you screwed the phone into your ear. Quiet time in woods, squirrel hunting. Damn fine eating. Crock-pot the old bucks. And before you screwed the phone back into your head we had agreed it was all right to have a scope on your twenty-two if you wanted head shots and clean body meat. We never got around to talking rifles. Maybe tomorrow, and more about Ginger, my Uncle Ralph’s border collie “squirrel dog.” Sometimes, mostly, maybe always, the most simple hunting is the best. Some time when you detach the phone from your head, come down the hall, unfold a tin chair, and let’s talk squirrel guns. You might not know this, but there is a phone jack on the wall and if you pull it out your phone doesn’t ring. And, you can turn off your cell phone. Just tidbits of wisdom from an old squirrel hunter who wasn’t much of a baseball player. Jon