I wish I remembered the first time I met Sam Stokes. Something tells me it was probably during a playoff game for North Central Little League. I was all of 10 years old, a player on “The Lions” while he was near the opposing dugout, one of the two main coaches for Greenwood Hardware, a team his two sons, “Big” Mike and Matt Stokes, played for. “Big” Mike must have already been his dad’s height at that point, which to me, I have to admit, was just a tad bit intimidating considering Mike was the starting pitcher and I was batting leadoff. When he released the ball it was as if his hand was already at the plate. The first pitch of the at-bat was an accidental fastball off my helmet, which would have been sort of a hilarious way to start the game had it not led to the torn ACL of an ultra-supportive father. If it was any consolation, we won the game, but regardless, it certainly serves as the most memorable playoff game I’ve ever been a part of.
Over the next couple of years I got to know Sam a little better—always the extremely kind coach on the opposite side of the field as Mike graduated to Juniors and Sam led the transition from Greenwood Hardware to Ken’s Market, now the head coach of Matt. Our interactions were always friendly, even more so as the teams I was on got worse and worse. On occasion (and believe me, that last year it was seldom) I’d get to third base and he’d always check in, always encouraging me. Although North Central during those years was extremely competitive, Sam was the embodiment of what the league was all about. Having fun playing the best sport with your best friends. I think he understood that winning could be, would be, a result of that. Many of my really good friendships blossomed playing little league together. We went to the same elementary and middle schools and it felt like sometimes we’d see each other more than our parents, leaving school and meeting up soon after for practice and games. By the end of my 12 year old season I knew with certainty that I had hoped to play for Sam one day. That wish would come true two years later during my second year of Juniors and from day one I knew it was going to be a special season.
The older I get the more I realize that it is often the father that provides the foundation for a son’s love of sports, but it is the coach that can harness that passion and take it to the next level. My dad ignited my fire for baseball from day one. We loved the Mariners and we loved Ken Griffey, Jr. We’d go to the local parks and in the backyard and I’d shag fly ball after fly ball. My dad was the one that taught me to care. He taught me to play defense and developed that instinct to catch the ball out of the sky and off the bat and he taught me to be aggressive on the base paths. I was getting sick of being on opposing teams watching Sam’s (team) play baseball the way I wanted to. With movement and motion—stealing bases, bunting, hitting-and-running with joy—his teams always looked like they were having a good time. Idyllic. I was never the most skilled, but Sam knew that I wanted to win the baddest.
The 14 year old / 8th grade year may have been my favorite season playing baseball. It helped that I was playing alongside three of my good friends from Hamilton middle school, Rodney, Tyler and Matt, and that we were helmed by wunderkind, Kyler, but we all know that the reason that that team felt unstoppable was Sam. Maybe it was the practices or the way we went through the motions before a game—situation by situation, making sure we were prepped and ready to go. Maybe it was the way he had us line up on the foul line after games, take leads, and then race each other towards second base. Or maybe it was the way he instilled confidence in every one of us, literally, every one of us, to the point where it became part of our objective, our collective fervent desire, to win for him. The way he’d incite us, galvanize us, and get us fired up—often times with a no nonsense, direct call to action, but accented with that beautiful Oklahoma drawl. It wasn’t rah-rah. It wasn’t fake. When he spoke, we listened. When he led, we followed. Sometimes I think he had more confidence in me than I had in myself.
Sam used to call us, “bud.” It felt like we were all his sons. That year we had a ton of success, barely losing at all during our “regular” season and then also finding success in the wooden-bat tournament. The journey reached its pinnacle during All-Stars when a combination of the two Junior teams competed in districts and won, yielding a trip to the state baseball tournament. That team seemed destined for greatness—a collection of guys who I had grown up with and loved. We all knew each other’s games, where we thrived and where we struggled, and Sam knew us better than anyone.
The first game we lost in heartbreaking fashion after a controversial call at the plate. It had been a competitive, back-and-forth game, so for it to end the way it did was disappointing. We were convinced the umpire had wanted to go home early. The second game we responded with force and won. The third game, however, we came out flat and lost again, eliminating us from contention. Suddenly our dreams had evaporated. We were despondent, crushed—we all had felt unbeatable and invincible just days before. Sam shared our heartbreak. He, like us, knew that we had the potential to go so much further. What I remember then was how he always used to speak to us as a group and individually in loss—with gratitude, with support, and with love—always reminding us how much he loved coaching us, how great of an experience it had been for him—to remember the journey along the way.
In an attempt to lift our spirits we stopped at the Kirkland ‘Wing Dome’ for some chicken wing therapy. After all, making it to state was worth celebrating. We dove into some kamikaze and hot wings, gradually getting out of our funk, but it was Sam’s performance to cap the meal off that was the stuff of legend. At one point during the meal, Sam did the “7-Alarm challenge”, which was eating 7 of Wing Dome’s hottest wings in 7 minutes without the aid of a beverage. He did it, wing-by-wing, and we all went crazy—culminating in him taking a small piece of lettuce to gather the remaining hot sauce and wipe the plate clean. He survived that challenge with a gnarly blister on his lip, but somewhere in that Kirkland Wing Dome there’s a picture of him on their Wall-of-Fame (or “Flame), which in every aspect of my interactions with Sam, as a coach and as a father figure, is right where he belongs.
Over the next couple of years, I think Sam stepped back from coaching and was more of a bench/assistant coach. His influence never waned.
Thinking about Sam makes me reflect on those private moments when I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn and he still kept the faith. Or how when I would get on base he knew how to conduct my electricity and capitalize on my strengths to help the team win. I used to love to steal bases and I would steal so much that it felt like he had given me a permanent green light. Later on, when he was at first base (or third base), it was like he and I could communicate telepathically, analyzing the pitchers tendencies—he and I each participating in the game within a game. Sometimes my aggression on the base paths got me in trouble—like one particular moment when I got a little greedy during a very important game, watched a passed ball trickle away, decided to run home from third, only to get tagged out at home, throwing my helmet down in frustration and subsequently getting thrown out by the umpire. I threw it down because I was so pissed at myself and the ump mistook it as disrespect to the call. Either way, a voice yelled, “YOU GOT THROWN OUT!” which was not Sam’s voice, but also mirrored the voice in my own head and I proceeded to start the walk of shame. Getting thrown out elicited an automatic suspension, something I had never experienced before. I felt miserable. I wanted to help the team win. Now it was the next game would determine the winner of the tournament. Sam came over to me and assured me not to worry and implored me to keep my head up. He knew I had made a mistake. He didn’t judge me for it. He wanted to make sure that I knew I’d be alright, he had seen what I had seen, and that we were going to win the next game. He communicated this message so effectively and so kindly and with a profound level of understanding. He was not my father, but he was a father and it was just one of the qualities that made him a superlative coach.
We won the next game, just like he said we would.
After baseball, we started to talk a little less—I’d see him and Mike around every now and again, but communication was mainly done through Facebook messages. While I seemed to move around and be in one place one day and another place the next his messages would always find me. As I got older, I’d yearn more and more for those good ‘ol days of playing for my favorite coach. A simpler time. We were long overdue for a reunion and a catch-up. He would tell me to come to Voula’s. I kept telling him I would see him there. It will eat at me forever that I never went.
I loved Coach Sam so much. There’s no other coach I would have rather played for. He embodied positivity and created a foundation and environment of pure, eternal joy for the game that I, and we, all love. I will forever cherish the memories made on the baseball diamond, under the direction of a great man, a father figure to us all. Compassionate. Unselfish. Someone who always had our back. Someone who could always get through to us and someone we were proud to follow into battle. A gentle giant with a kind soul. A diehard Mariners fan. First ballot in the 7-Alarm Hall of Fame.
Sam, I love you. I miss you. May your memory be a blessing to us all.
2006 North Central Little League. What a beautiful team.