In hindsight, it was a mistake to meet at the house. Meghan, naturally, put out a table full of food. College students being what they are, the first hour was spent emptying the table. Shellie and Meghan spent most of the time bonding over their cheerleader experiences. Precious little work was accomplished.
The project eventually progressed, and we held regular meetings in the restaurant. The group was enthralled with our new computerized accounting system. I showed them how transactions were processed and printed an income statement and balance sheet. Stuart’s eyes lit up when he saw the numbers.
The night before their class presentation, we met at the Grill. The group had a team dinner together and, when they were finished, Stuart presented me with a gift.
“Randy, this has been a great experience, and we want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Don’t tell Professor Murry, but we learned more here than in his class.”
I opened the gift box and found a Central Valley baseball jersey. Team Chet was stitched on the back. Shellie said, “We were going to get you a football jersey, but Meghan said you were a baseball fan.”
Going into the on-campus presentation, I couldn’t help feeling nervous. The group was not allowed to tell me the purpose of their study. At the back of my mind was the thought that Professor Murry had somehow set up the team to fail. When he first asked about letting the group use Chet’s for their project, he mentioned their lack of work experience. He didn’t think they had any idea what went on in a real business. It occurred to me that I would have to pick apart their presentation.
The mere fact that I was sitting in my old classroom, in a business suit, made me uncomfortable. Having to critique the project findings was downright distressing. After the obligatory acknowledgments and thanks, the group unveiled their first slide. “Maximize Profitability of Chet’s Enterprises.” Given that two of the team members were finance majors and two were accounting majors, I had a bad feeling.
After presenting a brief history of the establishment, its ownership, and its operations, they unveiled their recommendations. The lone marketing major in the group discussed our advertising methods and assessed their cost efficiency. The accountants talked about our inventory levels and calculated economic order quantities (that is, the factors that help you decide when to replenish your stock).
I was pleased with what I had heard so far, but I knew where the presentation was eventually headed. Stuart and Shellie took over the report and launched into an analysis of our menu and pricing. They recommended reducing portion size on almost every item as a way of increasing profitability. Use medium eggs instead of extra-large. Use a quarter-pound hamburger instead of the one-third pound we were serving. Reduce beverage servings to twelve ounces from the current sixteen.
On and on went the analysis, through each and every menu item. They had pages of calculations detailing savings and profits. They even calculated the savings of using disposal plates and cutlery instead of washing our plates. Chet and I could retire in couple of years if they were correct. Unfortunately, I knew they were wrong, and I was going to have to tell them so. They finished their presentation, and Professor Murry, smiling from the back of the classroom, looked at me.
“Mr. Duffy, we would appreciate your thoughts on the presentation,” he said.
He knew that, as bean counters, they would look at cutting costs without considering the effect on the quality of the product. He had set them up and was going to make me be the bad guy. He knew I couldn’t agree to their recommendations and was going to have to explain why they were wrong.
I smiled back at Professor Murry and politely thanked him for the opportunity to address the class. Inside, I was cursing a blue streak. I remembered my dad taught me it was easier to criticize someone if you praised them first.
I thanked the group for all their efforts and told them how enjoyable it was to work with them. I addressed each portion of their report, as it was presented. I told the marketing major I liked his analysis of our advertising expenditures. Chet and I would certainly take his ideas into consideration. The economic order quantities would be useful, but I did point out that we would have to adjust their numbers for seasonal fluctuations in our business.
Finally, I had to address the suggestions for cutting back on portions.
“You have put together some truly impressive calculations. As Professor Murry will attest, math was not my best subject. I would caution that just because an equation works on paper doesn’t mean it will work in real life. You have to look at the assumptions behind the equations.
“We would definitely make more money, in the short run, by adopting your recommendations. However, we sell more than food in our restaurant. I like to think we sell a dining experience. Paper plates and disposable cutlery work well in a fast food environment. They would detract from the experience at Chet’s. It is also likely that the good citizens of Central Valley will know the omelet you propose we make is not the same as the one they ate last week. Likewise, smaller hamburgers, french fries, and drinks would not be well received.”
Looking at Professor Murry, smirking, in the back of the classroom, I knew I was giving the analysis that was necessary.
“I would like to see you recommend ways for us to give our customers more for their money, instead of less.”
I said it as politely as I could, so as to not hurt their feelings. The look of chagrin on their faces made me believe I had failed miserably.
Professor Murry broke the awkward silence. “Here you have two competing philosophies of how to run a business. The success or failure of your careers will depend on how well you apply them to your own business situation.”
Meghan and I invited Professor Murry and the students to a cookout the weekend after the presentation. Everyone was invited to bring their significant other and, not surprisingly, Stuart and Shellie showed up together. Their hurt feelings were soothed by the good grade Professor Murry awarded the group for their project.
When I was a college student, nothing tasted better than a steak. I loaded the barbecue grill to capacity with sizzling filets. Meghan made all the side dishes, and there were plenty of adult beverages.
After everyone had their fill, Stuart proposed a toast. Holding his drink high, he proclaimed, “Here’s to the continued success of Chet’s Enterprises!”
Everyone concurred with his proclamation, and the clinking of glasses and beer bottles continued for some time.
I held my glass up and said, “Businesses come and go, careers rise and fall, but your family is forever.”
Shellie looked at Stuart and smiled.
Top of the Eighth Inning
The widely believed folk tale that the first sign of spring involves the sighting of a robin is completely false. The earliest and most accurate harbinger of spring is the reporting of pitchers and catchers to training camp.
That event having passed, the Duffy Family was eagerly awaiting the opening day of the regular season. During our engagement, friends tried to warn us that a mixed marriage would never work. A Phillies fan and a Pirates fan could never find happiness together. We took pains to prove them wrong.
The Duffy Family was evenly divided in baseball loyalty. Our nine-year-old son, Robbie, was firmly in the Phillies camp. Seven-year-old Nick was attempting to curry his mother’s favor by siding with her Buccos. Family harmony was maintained by strict adherence to a set of ground rules.
If only one of our teams was on television, all family members watching the game must root for said team. In the event that both teams were televised simultaneously, a coin toss determined who got to watch the good TV and who had to watch on the basement television.
When the Phillies played the Pirates, battle lines were drawn down the center of the family room. Pittsburgh fans on one side, Philadelphia fans on the other. No discussion between sides was permitted. There was much more at stake in t
his rivalry than bragging rights. At the end of each season, the team with the best record ruled the house during the off season.
“Ruling the house” might require the losing family members to wear the winning team’s jersey and cap for a day of the winner’s choosing. It didn’t matter if that involved school, work, supermarket, or church. Additionally, the victorious side won the right to decorate the family room with their team’s memorabilia for the entire off season. The most coveted prize was the right to plan a weekend road trip to their team’s stadium the next season. As vacation time remained a rare commodity for me, this trip was one of our few chances to get away.
The restaurant had been more successful than I ever imagined, but success had come at a price. Chet would still work seven days a week at the grill, but he wanted nothing to do with running the business.
He frequently reminded me, “You’re the college boy.”
Everything to do with management fell to me. When Chet and Dolores offered me the job, bookkeeping was the only duty other than cooking that was mentioned. Now I was responsible for running the entire business. I also got to be the landlord for the bookstore and apartments, which demanded almost as much of my time as the restaurant.
When we paid down more of our debt, I was going to hire more help. My conservative nature just wouldn’t let me spend the extra money when we had so many loans to repay. I scrimped and saved for so much of my life that I didn’t feel comfortable taking on additional expenses.
The battle over home life and work raged nonstop in my brain ever since Meghan and I were married. While my job was very rewarding, time spent with my family was infinitely more enjoyable. I made two resolutions on New Year’s Day. The first was that I was going to coach Robbie’s baseball team in the spring. The restaurant would have to survive without me for a couple of hours a week. The second was that the Duffy Family would take a two-week vacation as soon as Robbie’s baseball season ended. I hadn’t had a two-week vacation since Chet gave me time off as a graduation gift.
Robbie inherited my love of baseball and his Uncle Ricky’s athletic ability. Since he first put a baseball glove on, at the age of three, everything to do with the sport had come naturally to him. It’s as if he lived a past life as a major leaguer.
Many kids say baseball is too slow. More kids in Central Valley were playing soccer than baseball and football combined. Some of the baseball fields in the town park had even been converted to soccer fields.
To me, the best thing about baseball is the pace of the game. You never run out of time in a baseball game, you run out of outs. Sports with a clock inevitably resort to clock management. The game changes as you try to either conserve or kill time. In baseball, you can be down five runs with two out in the bottom of the ninth and still have a chance to win the game. It doesn’t often happen, but the possibility always kept me from turning the channel.
There is so much strategy that goes into a baseball game that I appreciated the time between pitches. Does the pitcher show fastball to set up an off-speed pitch? Does the batter take a pitch or swing away? Do you put the runners in motion to avoid the double play? The variables are endless, which in my view only adds to the enjoyment of the game.
When Robbie first watched games with me, our conversations centered on learning the rules. He had those mastered by the time he was five. From then on we talked strategy. During one crucial bases loaded, no outs, situation I posed a question to him.
“You’re the manager, what do you do? Are you going to play the infield in and try to cut off the run at the plate or do you concede the run and set your infield at double play depth?”
He chose double play just as the manager did. He felt like a genius when the batter grounded into the desired twin killing. Discussing strategy became an integral element of watching baseball.
My son Nicholas enjoys baseball, although his favorite sport is soccer. I’m happy to kick the ball around in the backyard, but I know next to nothing about the sport. It was embarrassing to watch his games and have to keep asking other parents to explain every call.
It was somewhat distressing to Meghan that neither of her boys played a sport that involved cheerleaders. Her instincts often got the better of her, and she frequently tried to get the parents cheering in unison. When one of her babies had been wronged, in the course of a game, my prim and proper wife turned soccer hooligan in an instant. She would have no difficulty fitting right in with the Veterans Stadium 700 level crowd.
The idea of coaching a baseball team frightened me, even if it was only a team of nine-year-olds. The long-buried demons of my playing days were beginning to resurrect themselves. The realization that I never accomplished anything on a baseball field haunted me. How could I expect my players to do things I couldn’t do?
At the first practice I knew I had to exude confidence. Leaving the boys to loosen up their arms with a game of catch, I addressed their parents. I introduced myself and issued my ground rules for the season.
“Parents, please remember that this season is about kids playing a kids’ game. No matter what happens, do not say anything negative about any player. Also, keep in mind that coaches coach and parents cheer. Don’t confuse or distract the boys by trying to coach from the bleachers.”
These were my rules based on my experiences as a kid, as a spectator, and as a parent. I offered a few more suggestions to the parents.
“If we win every game, the mayor will not close down Main Street for a victory parade. If we lose every game, the Central Valley Police Department will not confiscate their gloves. Everyone has paid the same registration fee, so all the boys will get equal playing time. Personally, I’ll be happy if we win as many games as we lose and the boys finish the season with all their teeth.”
The last statement had no sooner left my lips when a chorus rose up among the boys playing catch.
“Coach Randy, Coach Randy, come quick!”
One of the boys was lying on the ground holding his hands to his face. Alex Collins had used his face instead of his glove to catch a ball. Both his face and ego were bruised. Each coach was issued a first aid kit with the team’s equipment. I used the first of two chemical ice packs that came with the kit.
Alex sat on the bench, with the ice pack, while practice resumed. I was hitting ground balls to the fielders when I saw Alex’s mom approaching the bench. I knew from personal, painful experience that a nine-year-old boy is embarrassed after taking a ball in the chops. Teasing and ribbing from his teammates were sure to follow. The last thing he wanted was to have his mother doting over him as everyone watched.
“He’ll be fine, he just needs a minute,” I said.
My tone was probably more dismissive than it should have been. I was more concerned with her son’s well-being than her need to mother. The daggers in her eyes indicated an apology might be necessary after practice.
I did feel vindicated when Alex returned to the field moments later. Trying to get him in the flow of things, I hit the next two grounders to him. The first went right between his legs. The second bounced up and hit him in the chest. To his credit, he shook off the bad hop and chased after the ball. I avoided hitting anything else his way for the reminder of the drill. There was only one more ice pack left in the kit.
After practice I was putting the equipment away when Mrs. Collins approached with fire in her eyes. Taking a very nasty tone, she lit into me. “I’m sorry if my son is not as talented as yours. Not everyone is so fortunate. I don’t know what you expect out of Alex, but if you don’t want him on your team, let me know. I’ll find somewhere else for him to play.”
I was expecting her to rip me but in my defense, I never said anything negative about Alex. The jab at my son was also not appreciated. Robbie was the best player on the team and probably the league. To his credit, he never showed off or showed anyone up. To the contrary, he would go out of his way to help other kids
.
Mrs. Collins finished her tirade, but I could see she was still fuming. Realizing how defensive my wife was about her children, I tried to dial down the intensity level.
“Mrs. Collins, these boys are nine years old. I don’t expect any of them to know how to play. I do expect them to play better in the last game of the season than they did in the first.”
Realizing that she may have misjudged me, her demeanor softened.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that he loves baseball so much, and he’s not very good at it. He puts his uniform on as soon as he gets up in the morning. He has to be the first one at the field, and I can never get him back in the car after a game.”
It occurred to me, as she was talking, that the baseball gods have a sense of humor. Alex was much like I was at his age. This would be revenge for all the coaches who had to deal with the nine-year-old version of me.
“Alex’s dad is in the navy, and he’s often at sea. I’m living here with my parents until he can get shore duty. I don’t know anything about baseball, so I can’t help him. Last year his coach just stuck him in the outfield and never tried to teach him anything.”
I told her, “I’ll always be at practice a half hour early. Since Alex likes to be the first one at the field, I’ll be happy to work with him before practice.”
True to her word, Alex and mom were thirty minutes early at the next practice. Remembering what a coach had done for me, I brought a rubber ball to practice. I threw the ball to him a couple of times to see where we needed to begin.
Baseball does not come naturally to many kids, and Alex’s problem was not unique. When he tried to catch the ball, he would hold his glove straight out in front of him, with the palm up. Unless the ball hit the glove at a perfect angle, it would skip right off. If the throw was high, it would hit the heel of the glove and carom into his face. That’s how he was hurt in the first practice.
I told him to hold his glove arm straight out to his side. Then I told him to bend his elbow and make the letter L with his arm. I turned his glove, so it faced towards me. While he held the glove open, I soft tossed the rubber ball directly into the pocket of the glove. All he had to do was squeeze the glove closed as the ball hit. After several tosses he started to get the feel of catching this way. I tossed a few to his left so he had to move the glove to the ball.
A Life On College Hill Page 19
