Somewhere in the spring of 1995, a conversation took place that, on the surface, seemed completely insignificant.
Someone mentioned to Al that #35 played softball and might be interested in joining SFRC. Al explained the process. There were tryouts. There was the annual Umpires Tournament, a relaxed spring event where the stakes were low, the competition friendly, and nobody was exactly scouting future Hall of Famers.
Then came the sales pitch:
"We have enough players, but if you show up, I'll try to get you an at-bat."
That was it.
No guarantees. No promises. No grand vision for the future of the franchise.
Just the possibility of one at-bat.
Chaos theory tells us that a butterfly flapping its wings can set off a chain of events that eventually changes the course of history. In SFRC terms, one casual comment, one conversation, and one invitation to an umpire's tournament somehow led to more than three decades of softball memories.
#35 showed up.
And at some point that spring, he found himself charging toward home plate wearing an Iowa sweatshirt he still owns today. He launched himself head-first and slid safely across the plate. Looking back, it wasn't Game 7 of the World Series. There were no scouts. No television cameras. No endorsements waiting. Yet somehow the pressure felt enormous.
Today that old Iowa sweatshirt isn't just a sweatshirt. It's a reminder.
A reminder of being the new guy.
A reminder that there was once a time when making the team wasn't guaranteed.
A reminder that every long journey starts with a single moment.
Most importantly, it's a reminder of how close all of this came to never happening.
Because from that one at-bat came seasons.
From those seasons came friendships.
From those friendships came stories.
And from those stories came everything that followed.
Hundreds upon hundreds of games. Countless Thursday nights. League championships. Tournament weekends. Teammates who became lifelong friends. Stat sheets. Team photos. Film room highlights. Quote Page entries. Post-game beers. Inside jokes that nobody outside the team would ever understand.
Every season created another season.
Every year added another chapter.
Every new player became connected to a decision made by a guy who simply decided to show up and see if he could get an at-bat.
It's impossible to calculate the ripple effects.
How many innings have been played because of that conversation?
How many games?
How many laughs?
How many friendships?
How many memories?
Nobody knows.
What we do know is that in 1995, Al said, "I'll try to get you an at-bat."
Thirty-plus years later, #35 is still showing up.
Not bad for a guy the team didn't need.
Most players join SFRC because they know somebody.
Some get recruited because they can hit.
A select few get recruited because they're exactly the kind of person you want sitting next to you in the dugout for the next twenty years.
Kenny fell into that last category.
For years, SFRC enjoyed playing against him. He competed hard, knew the game, got along with everyone, and somehow managed to be one of those rare opponents that you found yourself talking to more than trash-talking.
Eventually, a consensus started to form.
Kenny wasn't just a good softball player.
He was leadership material.
Not the loudest guy on the field. Not the guy giving speeches after every inning. Just the kind of person who made teams better simply by being there. Dependable. Positive. Competitive. The sort of player every manager wants and every teammate appreciates.
So eventually the question was asked:
"Would you be interested in playing with SFRC?"
His response wasn't exactly a recruiting coordinator's dream.
"I can't make it about 50% of the time."
Fair enough.
Everyone has commitments.
Life happens.
The funny thing is that after delivering that disclaimer, Kenny proceeded to do something remarkably inconsiderate to the accuracy of his own statement.
He showed up.
Then he showed up the next week.
Then the week after that.
Then the next season.
And the season after that.
And before long, everyone had forgotten that his availability was supposedly going to hover somewhere around fifty percent.
Years later, his attendance record had become one of the most reliable things on the team.
Some players join a roster.
Others become part of the foundation.
Kenny quickly became part of the foundation.
The same qualities that made SFRC want him in the first place turned out to be exactly what they thought they were getting. He led by example, competed hard, supported teammates, and became one of the people who helped preserve the culture that has kept SFRC going since 1987.
Looking back, it's hard to imagine the team without him.
Which is funny, because it all started with a guy warning everyone that he probably wouldn't be around very much.
As it turns out, "about 50% of the time" translates to something very different in SFRC math.
Sometimes it means every week.
Every season.
For years.
Back in the early days of SFRC, there was something that has become almost legendary:
Practice.
Or at least that's what everyone thought it was.
Players would show up expecting to sharpen their softball skills. Al would gather everyone together and start teaching the finer points of the game. He'd explain why you hit the cutoff man. He'd walk through relay throws from the outfield. He'd demonstrate how to turn a double play and where everybody should be on specific situations.
To the unsuspecting attendee, it looked like a softball clinic.
To Al, it was a tryout.
Every throw, every swing, every ground ball, every hustle play was being quietly evaluated.
As Al explained how to hit the cutoff man, he was figuring out who could actually hit the cutoff man.
As he demonstrated double-play mechanics, he was determining who could turn two and who might struggle turning one.
As players stepped into the batter's box, he wasn't just watching for line drives. He was looking for composure, effort, attitude, and whether someone would fit with the group.
The baseball terminology made it sound educational.
The reality was that roster decisions were actively being made.
What made it especially brilliant was that nobody really got cut.
At least not officially.
There was no awkward meeting.
No rejection letter.
No difficult conversation.
Instead, players fell into one of two categories:
Roster Player
or
Sub.
"Sub" sounded encouraging.
You were still part of the team.
You were still in consideration.
You might get called.
Someday.
Maybe.
For some individuals, that call never quite arrived.
Years later there were probably people walking around Minnesota who technically remained SFRC substitutes, patiently waiting for the phone to ring.
It was a remarkably effective system.
Nobody left feeling rejected.
Nobody left feeling cut.
They simply attended what they believed was practice while Al quietly assembled the roster.
The players who made the team went on to build decades of SFRC history. Championships. Friendships. Stats. Film-room highlights. Quote-page immortality. Seasons that blended together into lifelong memories.
The others?
Well, they undoubtedly learned a lot about cutoff men and double plays.
Looking back, it may have been the most efficient scouting operation in recreational softball history.
Al called it practice.
Everyone else eventually realized it was a tryout.
Back in the old days, making SFRC involved attending a practice that wasn't really a practice. Al would teach cutoff throws, explain double plays, and quietly decide who was making the roster and who was being assigned to the permanent reserve list known as "sub."
It was a simpler era.
As the years passed, however, SFRC leadership realized something important:
A softball team isn't built solely on batting averages and fielding percentage.
Character matters.
Composure matters.
The ability to fit into the culture matters.
And most importantly, the ability to properly respond to unexpected incoming objects matters.
Thus, the modern SFRC tryout was born.
Today's process is considerably more sophisticated.
When a new employee starts at Skyline, #36 waits patiently. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes for days. The candidate begins to feel comfortable. They think they've escaped evaluation.
Then it happens.
A tape-ball comes flying across the room.
No warning.
No explanation.
No clipboard.
No whistle.
Just a projectile and an opportunity.
The initial version of the test was simple. Could the candidate catch the tape-ball? Could they maintain their composure? Would they laugh? Would they throw it back?
Unfortunately, early testing exposed a flaw in the process.
Some candidates could throw it back.
Just not necessarily toward #36.
There were incidents.
Computer monitors became involved.
Innocent bystanders were endangered.
One return throw reportedly came closer to the ceiling than the intended target.
The system needed refinement.
Today, the evaluation criteria are much more comprehensive.
The candidate is assessed on:
Awareness
Reaction time
Sense of humor
Ability to throw the tape-ball back
Ability to throw it back with at least a vague understanding of where #36 is standing
Nobody expects laser-guided precision.
This isn't Major League Baseball.
The throw simply needs to demonstrate a reasonable probability of returning to the original owner.
If the candidate laughs, throws it back, and shows enough accuracy to avoid property damage, they're already displaying many of the same traits that have made SFRC successful since 1987.
Because if we're being honest, that's what the team has always been looking for.
Not necessarily the strongest player.
Not necessarily the fastest player.
Just someone who can handle unexpected situations, enjoy a little chaos, and throw the ball back to the right person.
Al used to evaluate prospective teammates during practice.
Today, #36 uses office supplies.
Progress.