One Little Slip, a whistle blowers story

Lessons From the Field: Playing, Coaching, and Calling the Game

I would be remiss if I didn’t include a chapter about sports—playing them, coaching them, and officiating them—because they shaped who I am as much as anything else in my life.

Like most kids growing up before electronic devices ruled our days, we lived outside. If you wanted to see your friends, you rode your bike or made a call on a corded phone and hoped someone answered. Sports weren’t an extracurricular; they were a way of life. Being raised by a physical education teacher, coach, and official meant that every sport was on the menu at one point or another. You didn’t always get to choose—you participated.

Of all the lessons my father tried to teach me, the ones I ignored the most were about strength training and flexibility. Years of use, abuse, and stubbornness eventually caught up with me, and I know now those lessons would have paid dividends. Still, growing up that way made me competent at most sports and very good at a few.

Baseball, for example, was something I ultimately walked away from in high school—not because I lacked ability, but because I understood reality. At a private boys’ school where politics and money mattered as much as talent, the writing was on the wall. I ran track my last couple of years instead, partly to stay in shape and partly because I had to.

I came back to the game later through softball, playing in fire department leagues in my late teens. The pace of fast-pitch hooked me immediately. It demanded quicker thinking, sharper reactions, and constant engagement. While slow pitch never really did it for me, fast-pitch became something I truly loved.

Coaching: Building More Than Teams

In 2001, I stepped into what would become the most meaningful coaching chapter of my life. That August—just ten days after September 11th, on my birthday—we entered our first fall tournament. It wasn’t just another weekend of softball. It was a selection tournament, and the country was still in shock. That context mattered. Everything felt heavier, more serious, more fragile.

That year marked the beginning of the Adirondack Magic, a 14-U girls team I helped form with my friend James Ferro, who worked in the Department of Corrections. Along with two assistant coaches, we built what quickly became one of the strongest local club teams in the region. We competed with the best—and earned every bit of respect we got.

After one season, the group split. I left with one assistant coach, eventually adding another, and formed the Capital Region Rampage. From 2002 through 2006, we played five full seasons together. We went to Nationals multiple times, won tournaments, raised banners, and played more than sixty games a season. Nothing was handed to us. We earned our place every step of the way. One of the most memorable seasons came toward the end. By then, my L5–S1 disc issues had returned with a vengeance. I spent much of that Nationals trip coaching from a bucket because standing or walking for long stretches was nearly impossible. Getting through airports meant stopping every hundred feet. My assistant coach, Ron—someone I’ve praised countless times over the years—walked every step with me without ever suggesting a wheelchair. Years later, it’s almost ironic that wheelchairs became a necessity for travel.

That season was special, but it also marked the beginning of the end. Like many programs, growing pains set in. College recruiting started to dominate conversations. The game shifted. Lessons were learned—some the hard way.

Regrets, Accountability, and Growth

I didn’t get everything right as a coach. There are two decisions in particular I regret deeply.

One involved my assistant coach Tom and his daughter, a talented left-handed pitcher. I made a decision that fractured something that didn’t need to break. At the time, I failed to see the full picture, including what Tom’s family was dealing with privately. If I didn’t say it enough then, I’ll say it now: I’m sorry.

The second regret involves Ron and his daughter. I hurt people I cared deeply about by not handling a situation with the clarity and courage I should have. Those moments stay with you. They should. Coaching isn’t just about wins—it’s about stewardship.

I last saw Ron a few years ago when I gave him a piece of art I made from score sheets from the Baseball Hall of Fame members’ tournament. It was 2017—the year Homer Simpson was inducted. The piece was layered with resin, full of hidden details and Easter eggs, including a small tear on Homer’s face with the number 51 inside it for Darryl Strawberry. Ron’s face lit up when he saw it. I still think about that moment.

Ron, if you ever read this: I love you, my friend.

Officiating: Seeing the Game Differently

As I approached retirement in 2013, I knew officiating would be my next chapter. My old friend John DeFlumer—rest in peace—had been a local umpire for years and encouraged me to get involved. John was a good man who always kept the kids’ best interests at heart. Working games with him was a privilege.

In hindsight, I would have been a much better coach had I officiated first. Knowing how umpires think changes everything.

I also spent time as an assistant coach at Siena College under P.J. Brun, a remarkable coach from Hawaii who openly lived with Tourette’s Syndrome. Standing on base paths with her, watching signs, learning, and laughing—it was a unique experience. Ultimately, the pressure and emotional load became too much for me at that time, and I stepped away. I don’t regret it. I took what I needed from it.

Calling the Game—and Letting It Happen

When I officiated, especially in pregame conferences, I used to ask coaches a simple question: Is there anything strange you’ve never seen before? Then I’d tell them to watch closely—because for some reason, strange things tend to happen when I’m around. Triple plays. Bizarre bounces. The kind of stuff you only see once. It became a running joke, and more often than not, it came true.

I learned that officiating is about control—but not domination. The best officials are mostly invisible. They let the game breathe. They step in only when necessary.

One of the simplest lessons I learned was this: there are no balls and strikes—only strikes. Unless its clearly a ball. In other words, play like  the coin flip game, tails is strikes, bet on  Strikes each pitch, tails never fails.  Or, if it’s close, it’s a strike. It’s a way of thinking that keeps you consistent and fair. I do not advise betting on a pitcher that can’t throw a first strike, first batter at bat, its just not her day!

The rule book became second nature to me. If I spoke up about a rule, I was nearly certain I was right. If I wasn’t, I was happy to explore it openly. Being a person of conscience means being willing to question yourself as much as others.

I enjoyed solo games most—extra pay, more movement, more responsibility. You couldn’t hide behind the plate. You had to hustle, get angles, and earn every call. Even now, I can spot lazy or unprepared umpires instantly. At higher levels, there’s no excuse.

The Miles Were Worth the Smiles

Eventually, the travel, weather cancellations, and waiting around didn’t fit my life—especially once my dog business took off after 2012. But the memories stayed.

Recently, I found a video I made for my daughter Shana—something to remind her that all the miles were worth the smiles. And they were.

Sports taught me discipline, accountability, humility, leadership, and restraint. They showed me who I was—and sometimes who I wasn’t yet ready to be. Every chapter since has carried those lessons forward.

And in the end, the game always tells the truth.

What the Game Taught Me

Sports never taught me how to win at all costs. They taught me how to live with outcomes—earned or deserved—and how to own mistakes without hiding from them. Whether I was playing, coaching, or calling the game, the rules were always there. You could bend them in your head, complain about them, or pretend they didn’t apply to you, but the truth had a way of surfacing eventually. It always does.

What I learned early on is that authority means nothing without credibility. Respect isn’t demanded; it’s accumulated quietly over time through consistency, fairness, and accountability. The best coaches, the best officials, and the best leaders rarely need to raise their voices. They let their conduct do the talking.

Those lessons followed me long after the fields were behind me. They shaped how I viewed power, responsibility, and truth—especially when the stakes were no longer a game, and the consequences weren’t a missed call or a lost season. When rules are weaponized instead of applied, when lies replace judgment, and when authority forgets its purpose, the difference becomes impossible to ignore.

Once you’ve spent your life playing by the rules—even when no one is watching—you recognize immediately when someone else isn’t. And once you see it, you can’t un-see it.

That’s where this story truly begins.