D. O. Caywood

            In my early years I was like a lot of other boys.  Baseball was all that was really important to me.  In my hometown the first baseball team that my high school ever had was formed when I was in the seventh grade. Just about every boy in school tried out for the team. I still remember that day.  There must have been over a hundred boys trying to see if they might fulfill a dream. And even though I had been playing a lot of sandlot ball longer than I could remember I knew that I would never be able to make the team.  I was only in junior high and there were much bigger boys out there.  I did have one thing in my favor, however.  I had always played as a catcher and there were only three of us trying for that position. And because of that, I suppose, I actually made the team.  That was probably the finest day of my life at that time. 

            There was one thing I had to accept, however.  The other two were seniors in high school which meant that I would seldom get to play. I did still enjoy every minute of practice and just waited for my time to come.  It did come the next year and I was playing in almost every game until graduation time. 

            One big reason I was so happy playing was because of the coach, Mr. D. O. Caywood.  He died just a few years ago and it dawned on me that I never knew what those initials stood for.  But it didn’t matter.  He was a good coach and a good person.  He loved the game and he loved his players. He taught me a lot about sportsmanship and the need to work with others as a team and never as a single person. It would take too long to list all he did for me but here is the one thing that has inspired me to write this:

            Mr. Caywood must have gotten up very early every day because I would see him every morning in front of the town drugstore talking to his other early morning friends. Why was I up at that time you ask?  Well I delivered newspapers and that was the time of day I did it.  I normally would just wave and ride on off on my bicycle.  One day he stopped me and introduced me to one of his friends.  He used my name and told his friend that I was a really good catcher.  My head swelled up a bit and I shook hands with both of them.  That was the mistake I made.  Mr. Caywood snarled at me and said in his usually kind voice (but not this time), “Don’t ever hand someone a dead fish handshake!”  I didn’t know what he was talking about.  So he told me. He explained that a handshake was a show of one’s personality.  He said, “When you give a man a handshake, give him one with strength.  Let him know you mean it.  And look at him in the eye and smile.  You have more character than you are showing.”

            Then he made me stand there and shake his hand over and over again until I got it right.  And then he had me try it out on his friend.  I hoped they were having a good time.  They both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

            That was a simple story, wasn’t it?  Well I never forgot that lesson.  I may never be a known athlete or a particularly strong person but I know how to shake hands and mean it.  Mr. Caywood taught me well and for that I will always be thankful.

Thank you, Mr. Caywood!