Several years ago, the Little League where I'd served as a board member was hosting a post-season tournament. They talked me into coming back to work as a scorekeeper for some of the games
On opening night there was a brief moment of silence for a longtime league official who'd recently passed away. The official had been a close friend (a sad sidebar to longevity: having to say 'goodbye' a lot more often than 'hello').
During the tribute I stood at my work station behind the chicken wire backstop, between home plate and first base. Through the fence, on the playing field, I could see into the visiting team dugout. One of the coaches bowed his head and made the sign of the cross, and the gesture moved me. I thought: "He did that without even knowing my old buddy - showed respect and reverence. That coach must be a good guy - well-bred."
Part of my job that night was to keep each team informed of pitch counts. I wound up having interaction and friendly banter with the coach. It was obvious he was good - well-liked by the players and the other coaches. After the game, I exchanged pleasantries with the coach and then I headed off for a quick post-game meal.
The coach had the same idea. He was at the other side of the restaurant, along with several adults and one of his players, obviously his son. The coach spotted me and waved. When I strolled over to say hello, suddenly one of the other adults at the table stood up. Until now, a wide-brimmed sun hat had cloaked her face.
It was Lucy - my friend and colleague from the Indiana Writers Workshop! My fellow New Yorker! Lucy Schilling, whose blue eyes, beautiful smile and sunny disposition always lit up a room. Who always served up dollops of nurturing encouragement with her critiques, and - when she hosted meetings, some of the best refreshments and snacks. Who else had a recipe for 'spotted dick'?
For a few seconds, the three of us - Lucy, the coach, myself - stood there, mouths agape.
I couldn't figure out Lucy's connection to the Little League coach.
Lucy was wondering how the coach and I knew each other.
And the coach wanted to know how the Little League scorekeeper knew his mother.
That coach was, of course, Lucy's son Dave. We had a good laugh about that, once we sorted things out.
Looking back, I know now why that coach was a good guy - respectful, reverent and so well-liked. With Lucy Schilling for a mom, Dave Schilling couldn't miss.
Lucy's family nickname, 'Honey,' says it all. She was a sweet lady, more precious than a fair day in February. She was a joy to know, a pleasure to work with - truly a unique lady. I will miss her forever, but will treasure her memory.
In sympathy,
---Pete Cava
