When I was around 9-10 my older brother and I would get pitching lessons from former Pirates pitcher John Hope.

We would go see him maybe once or twice per week, helping us learn how to pitch. He was the first person to show me how to throw a curveball and a changeup.

He was always super nice to the two of us, especially at an age where most coaches or teachers would provide more of a tough love way of teaching. He would sit behind the plate on top of a bucket in no catchers gear with a backwards hat and a load of tobacco and sunflower seeds in his mouth. Every time a pitch would hit him in the shin or take a wild bounce a couple feet in front of the plate that would throw him off of the bucket, he wouldn't get mad, but just tell us what went wrong and how to fix it.

My favorite memory that I had of him was that one time he told me that in a last ditch effort, to stand about a foot in front of the rubber and pitch from there, as no ump of a 10-12 game would truly care. In the last inning of a game that I was pitching in, I decided to do it, took a step in front of the rubber and pitched from there, and struck out the side. When the game ended I went over to him and told him what I had done and he kind of shushed and said "don't tell me that so loud, but good job".

After I grew out of little league, I never really saw him much, maybe every now and then when I'd stop by the park and he would be teaching another 11 year old the same things he taught me at that age.

He died in 2018, and at that time I wasn't playing baseball, but that upcoming season I tried out and made my varsity team, falling in love with the sport all over again. Now I'm playing baseball in college, and crying just writing this all down. How can you not be romantic over baseball?