The Bohol Coconuts Baseball and Softball Club is conducting a Book Fundraiser to build an indoor training center with three tunnels for hitting, pitching, and fielding. ‘World Baseball Guy: The Overseas Adventures of an American Coach’ is the deeply, personal story of Coconuts head baseball coach Marvin “Merv” Moore.
Below is the complimentary first chapter of the book:
Berlin, Germany (1993)
The Swiss national baseball team accepted an invitation to play in the Four Nations tournament in Berlin, Germany. I agreed to be the first base coach, but it was a decision I would later regret. Several of my veteran players had warned me that the team wasn’t very good. But I’ve loved tournaments since I was a little leaguer, so I made the trip.
My first season coaching the Therwil Flyers was going magnificently. Summer was approaching, and things were great on and off the field. The Flyers were the biggest baseball and softball club in Switzerland. While my primary responsibility was to train the men’s team that competed in the country’s highest division, I also helped train the various youth squads.
Although I inherited a squad that was the two-time reigning Swiss champions, the gap between the top and bottom teams of the Swiss League was minuscule. It was one of the worst circuits in Europe, but the country had numerous teenagers that would quickly help elevate the level of baseball in the tiny nation.
I had ruffled some feathers early by building my team around a trio of 18-year-olds. Andreas Mathis, Mark Decker, and Stefan Suter had a different mindset than most Swiss players. They were young and inexperienced, but had a swagger and mental toughness that I liked. They played hurt and I trusted them to be productive in “big” games.
While a group of players were planning to visit the famed Berlin Wall, I was more excited about the Berlin Olympic Stadium. God blessed me that the tournament venue was less than 300 yards from the historic facility. This was the same place where Jesse Owens had embarrassed Adolf Hitler and shattered the myth of white supremacy.
I felt a strange uneasiness as I peered through the locked gates. I got goose bumps just thinking about how a black man could enter a stadium full of hatred and depart a hero. God truly works in mysterious ways and I was living proof.
I was just 24 when I moved back to my hometown of Seagoville to start my own newspaper. I had gone to college in Minnesota, and got my first sports writing job in East Texas. However, I was homesick and missed my childhood friends, Eli Escobar and John Tenison. But less than two years later, I was bored. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew I didn’t want the American Dream.
I had traveled more than 5,000 miles to direct my own baseball program. I was a complicated cat that became easily bored with everything – jobs, girls, hobbies – after a short period of time. But baseball was different. I was fascinated by a simple game that became more exciting with strategy. I never got bored with baseball and now I was living my dream.
This was my first time seeing the national team. I was shocked. The Flyers were “light years” better than this collection of misfits. Instead of picking the best players in the country, each club in the top division received three spots on the national team. I left the coaching box after three innings because the Swiss players could not hit the ball out of the infield.
We lost an ugly game with fielding blunders, errant throws, and mental mistakes to open the tourney. There was no doubt the Swiss national team was a joke. It was going to be a long four days, but I was fortunate to witness a Japanese baseball legend at work.
Yoshio Yoshida was a former star player for the Hanshin Tigers. Now he was coaching the French national team. I was intrigued by the different training methods used in Japan. I learned a fun, challenging drill that helps catchers block wild pitches in the dirt. Although I love coaching in playoff games and tournaments, my passion was player development. I enjoy watching unconfident young boys grow into confident baseball standouts.
A group of older players were visiting the famous Berlin Wall on our afternoon off. The famous structure had been torn down four years earlier, and the remnants became a must-see tourist attraction. I wanted to see a part of history, but my ankle was aching and I couldn’t do much walking. So I went to a nearby pub with some younger guys. It proved to be a big mistake.
The day started badly when a large group of skinheads marched through the streets during an organized demonstration complete with a large contingent of riot police in military gear. Several people shouted insults at these bald, young men dressed in black jeans and shirts. I always felt a strange feeling when I was in Germany. Watching these Nazi supporters up close made me feel even more uncomfortable.
The pub was huge and reminded me of a beer hall in Basel. I would have rather been with the older guys, enjoying the day without talking about baseball. But I was with college students, and that’s all they wanted to talk about. My favorite hobby overseas was people-watching and I was scoping the place when I noticed a group of men staring at me. But my focus was on a pretty, blonde German woman sitting at a table with her friends with whom I had made eye contact with several times.
I was getting ready to order another beer when the waitress came to our table and whispered in my ear. The men wanted to talk with me outside. Apparently, I had killed one of their friends. I was confused and shocked. I was the only black man in a sea of white people, and some of them wanted to hurt me.
I did my best to smile and look confident. My thoughts were racing out of control. I slipped into my “coach” mode and instantly all the voices inside the pub became inaudible. I surveyed the men behind my dark sunglasses. They were much older than me, but I was outnumbered. I felt alone and vulnerable.
The waitress returned a few minutes later and told me the men were from England and were in town for a soccer match. They had seen my t-shirt and assumed I was in the United States military. Now it all made sense. Eli helped build the B-2 stealth bomber in Texas, and had given me a black t-shirt with a stealth bomber and radar on the back. However, the front had a U.S. Air Force logo. My favorite shirt had gotten me into big trouble.
The drunk soccer fans were angry at the American military because of a friendly-fire accident in 1991 during the Gulf War. American forces had accidentally killed some British soldiers. The waitress told me that the pub owner had called the police, but because of the Nazi demonstration, the police were currently unavailable. I was on my own.
The men continued to stare at me, and I debated whether to take the waitress’s offer of leaving the pub via the back door in the kitchen. But I was 26 years old and in great shape. I was not going to sneak out the back door like a coward.
The men kept drinking and looking at me. The waitress told them I was a baseball coach in Switzerland, and that the t-shirt was a gift. But they were confident I was an American soldier. My attempt to de-escalate the situation failed miserably.
Although I was in an uncomfortable position, I felt a need to protect my young players. Physical confrontations were rare in Swiss culture, and I doubted any of my guys had ever been in a fist fight. I had to get these kids out of this place and back to the safety of our hotel.
My heart was pounding loudly as I stood up from the table. The plan was for me to follow everyone else past the group of men and out the front door. Since I was the target, my hope was that my young players would be outside if any trouble started. I had no intention of fighting a group of troublemakers, but the enemy didn’t know that.
I was both surprised and relieved when I made it outside the front door. I nervously watched the door as we walked back towards our hotel. The men did not follow us and I felt blessed. I had made a huge mistake regarding my safety, but God had bailed me out. Although I was safe in Switzerland, being an American overseas always came with some risks. It was a lesson learned.
The Swiss national team finished the tournament without winning a single game. It was so embarrassing that the Swiss Baseball and Softball Federation (SBSF) changed the rule that allowed each club to have three national team players. I became the head coach of the national team the following year and was responsible for choosing which players would represent Switzerland on the international stage.
Buy a copy of World Baseball Guy and help the Bohol Coconuts Baseball & Softball Club develop elite baseball, softball, and academic standouts!
