Cerebral Palsy Couldn't Keep Resilient Kelso Coach from The Baseball Life
Some coaches teach by example. Others scream instructions at their players from a distance.
Then there's Kelso Babe Ruth baseball coach Steve McCoy.
If able, he would show the 14- and 15-year-old members of his Baker Lumber team the art of stealing home. He would toss pitches at them from the mound or swing the bat, peppering the field with pregame fly balls.
Laziness doesn't keep him from wielding the bat, running or throwing. Cerebral palsy does.
In a world that has been slow to realize the gifts of the disabled, Kelso's McCoy, 47, has found a way to level the playing field. In doing so, he has logged 10 years as a Babe Ruth coach and recently received an all-star coaching assignment.
The cerebral palsy stems from a damaged motor nerve in the back of McCoy's brain. It started to show as an infant and was a rough break after being born two months premature and weighing only 15 ounces.
"When I was born, I wasn't breathing, so I was without oxygen for 10 minutes or so, then I started breathing on my own," he said. "It wasn't until I was about six or seven months old that they found out I had cerebral palsy."
Although the disorder lightly slurs his voice, his legs show the most dramatic effects. Unlike the players he coaches, who use their virile stems to bend and twist, crouch and sprint, McCoy’s legs are tested just in the effort to keep him upright.
Two canes strapped to his arms do the rest.
“I have no balance whatsoever. It feels like somebody is always pushing on me. I really have no concept of what balance is,” McCoy said, patting his canine companion, Lilly, on the side while sitting on a bench behind home plate at Kelso’s Stan Rister Stadium.
Ten years into his coaching career, it has been a long journey. But it was the years before that tested his mettle.
His father, Jack McCoy of Longview, remembers pushing the young lad to exceed the boundaries of his disability.
But first, the boy had to get to his feet.
“The first time I saw him, he was crawling. Wearing a diaper and crawling on the floor,” the elder McCoy recalled, adding that he met the youngster when he was just 4 years old. “His little feet were distorted. There wasn’t any curvature to them at all.”
After Jack and Steve’s mother, Donna, were married, they began taking the youngster to the orthopedic hospital in Seattle. At first, doctors fitted Steve with braces. Then, after a series of surgeries — 25 in all — he transitioned to hand crutches.
There was no stopping him.
Becoming an Athlete
Growing up in a family of baseball aficionados, including nephews Cam and Chris McCoy and uncle, Kirby, the love for the sport wore off on Steve McCoy as well.
“I’ve loved it ever since I could walk on crutches,” he said.
He played with neighborhood kids while growing up in Longview. His pitching stance was unlike any other — on his knees. He could also catch and hit the ball.
“Those neighborhood kids are my best friends to this day,” he said. “They always let me play, so I ended up getting pretty good at it.”
Tim Harmon, who has known McCoy since he was 3 years old, said he and the other kids in the 300 block of Colorado Street in Longview didn’t care that their friend had crutches or braces.
“He wasn’t any different than us,” Harmon said. “He was such a good friend. We didn’t want to leave him out of anything.”
The kids played night games in the middle of 30th Avenue. When the city put in lights, the young men were wowed — instant stadium.
Harmon said they hauled all the flour out of their mothers’ kitchens to line the field and once dug up McCoy’s neighbor’s backyard to make a pitcher’s mound.
McCoy and his buddies also tossed around the football and basketball, depending on the season.
It was then that he started feeling confident in his abilities. So much so that he decided to try out for the seventh-grade football team.
"I thought I could do anything," he said. "I can play any sports."
He talked to his father about the prospect.
"He said, 'You know the coaches over there, Dad. If you talk to them, they'll let me,'" his father said. "I said, 'Go ask the coach and see what he says.'"
The young man approached then-coach Fred Moe.
"I walked up there and said, 'Coach, I'm ready to play football. I need a uniform,'" McCoy said.
Moe turned as white as a ghost, McCoy said. He managed to think quickly, though, asking the young man if he'd had his physical.
In the end, McCoy realized that he wouldn't be able to pass the needed medical tests in order to play. It galled him.
"He got over it, but it was painful," his father said.
McCoy the Teacher
Cerebral palsy dashed his dream to play sports. Eventually, he found a way to replace the fantasy with a livable reality.
McCoy discovered he didn't have to be the star player on a high school team in order to coach. And that no matter what his disorder damaged physically, he could compensate.
When he's yelling encouragement to his players from the sidelines, his voice has no slur. It's a gravelly baritone that seems to start at the tips of his shiny metal canes and explode out his throat.
If he can't demonstrate a play, he passionately explains it, boring the information into the young player's brain.
As for balance — who needs it? He's got canes.
"When kids come up and ask me why I wear canes, I say, 'These are my training wheels. They help me stay up,'" McCoy said, grinning. "You remember the first time you tried to ride a bicycle, how you felt you were going to tip over? That's exactly how I feel."
For all his confidence, the 1978 R.A. Long High graduate found a little resistance his first year of coaching.
"A parent looked at me and wondered if I could really coach their son," he said. "A lot of people take it serious, you know, and they thought … he was going to miss out on a year because he wasn't going to get the proper teaching. But I proved the person absolutely wrong."
With a well of baseball knowledge to draw from, McCoy adjusted the traditional coaching role to fit his abilities.
The boys on the team do the field work, such as raking and lining, and assistant coaches perform physical instruction and stand in for McCoy near third base when the other team is up to bat.
"There's more than one way to skin a cat," he said. "I just get it done."
His team philosophy also includes working with every player, not just a chosen few.
"I tell the boys that we're a family here," he said. "I don't just work with one. I work with the whole team."
On the field, McCoy lets his team know that even though they're a "family," he's the big dog in charge of the pack.
"Come to Daddy," he called to the young men at the start of a game June 7 at Stan Rister Field. The boys, including McCoy's nephew, Garrett McCoy, gathered around him for last-minute instructions and a piling of hands.
"Baker!" they chanted.
McCoy wore the same baseball hat as the rest of the team members, but embroidered on the back are the words, "Gary and Kirby McCoy." The words are a tribute to his brother, Gary, and uncle, both of whom are battling cancer.
"We've got some things going on right now," McCoy said, adding that he also thinks of his oldest son, Nathan, who is serving in Iraq.
For nearly all the things cerebral palsy took away, McCoy gradually found a way to replace them. As the disorder progresses, it might take away more, he said. Muscles atrophy slowly. Some patients end up in wheelchairs or dependant on others for their care.
Baseball remains the same.
"I'd rather do this than eat," McCoy said.
Even so, he's considering making the 2008 season his last.
"I'll be 50," he said. "My nephew (Garrett) will be leaving. I think it will be time. I can't say for sure."
He might retire from coaching, but McCoy said he would like to help others in his situation build their confidence.
"So they can do things like go out and get a job," said McCoy, who is in scheduling at the service and repair department at Columbia Ford. "It's all about believing in yourself. I don't care what disability you have, there's always something out there for everybody. You just have to visualize the dream."