Mike Cox I spent most of the ’70s playing for and coaching a men’s softball team. My sons were old enough to enjoy being around the players and young enough to not have conflicting schedules, so it was a good experience for them.

We played a pure game; hard–nosed, intense, but always with a smile on our faces. Losses and wins were treated equally. After the final out, we converged around the beer cooler and talked baseball. That decade, softball took up most of my time and much of my money.

Being involved with that team rekindled my love for baseball and made large deposits into my memory bank. My only regret is how little I see of those guys now. Three, in particular, I will never see again.

James had an American father and an Asian mother. In addition to a striking appearance, he had the largest head I’ve ever seen on a human. James was in such good shape he didn’t have enough loose skin to pinch. Easily the best athlete I ever saw on a softball field, the big guy hit monstrous home runs. Most of the communities in West Alabama have a James White story to this day.

R. P. was my nephew by marriage. He was a sports encyclopedia and one of the funniest guys in existence. He loved Crimson Tide football better than breathing and was more loyal to his friends than Sam from Lord of The Rings . Both of these men died of heart attacks before they had a mid–life crisis.

Tommy was the most care–free person I ever met. He loved to play golf and make wicked jokes at his friends’ expense. A party would start anywhere he showed up. Sadly, he never learned to function without alcohol and died from a liver ailment because he couldn’t stop drinking.

These three men, and the others I played with were, like most ballplayers, extremely superstitious. Their primary concern was making sure no equipment was put away until the game had ended. Completely. You were taking victory for granted and the Sports Gods would seek revenge.

One time, a batboy decided to put the bats away early. We were leading by nine runs, and there were two outs. When the kid pulled out the bag, he was accosted by six guys; three of them on the field. Lucky for him, we won the game.

Last week I read where each NASCAR team has a box filled with hats so the winner can have a photo–op with each sponsor in the Winner’s Circle. Someone is designated to retrieve the box when it becomes evident their driver will win. The trick is to make sure the hats aren’t touched until the checkered flag waves.

Deborah Robinson, who works for Dodge, was in charge of the hats for a recent race at Darlington. Jeremy Mayfield, her team’s driver, held a large lead late in the race. She got the hats ready prematurely. A caution flag flew. Newman didn’t win. Robinson is no longer in charge of getting the team’s hats ready. RP, James, and Tommy would have understood.