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They were fine softball players and fine men, and they got called up way too soon, writes
They were fine softball players and fine men but got called up way too soon.
In softball, the scorebook usually tells all: hits, runs, errors, winners and losers.
But in the case of the Terminators, the adult softball team I managed in Pittsburgh’s North Hills YMCA Weekender League from 1991 to 1997, the scorebooks tell only part of our story.
In that seven-year span, we won 134 games and lost only 29. Four times we won the league championship, and it would have been five straight except for the day we didn’t have enough players to field a full team. Over the years, we had guys who hit .700, others who hit home runs in the double digits, and many who made Roberto Clemente’s glove look average.
But of all the stats and all the victories captured in the scorebooks, the most astounding fact about our team is this: Of the dozen or so players who made up our core group, four have died, tragically and at young ages. This is their story, and you won’t find it in the scorebooks.
The Elder Statesman
At 45, Frank Maier was our elder statesman, but “statesman” fit him a whole lot better than “elder.” A native of the Bronx, New York, with a charming accent and matching demeanor, he was a 20-year veteran of Westinghouse Electric Corp. One of our pitchers, Frank added a calming veteran presence and an occasional big bat to the lineup.
Frank played with us for less than two years, though, because in 1993 he accepted a job in Dallas with Enserch Corp. In April 1996, he joined a trade mission to Croatia along with U.S. government and business leaders. Frank had a particular interest in helping to provide muchneeded electricity for the war-torn nation’s reconstruction efforts.
Tragedy struck when the group’s U.S. Air Force plane crashed and all 35 people aboard were killed. For Frank’s wife, Diane, and their two teenage daughters, Stephanie and Krissy, the public nature of the tragedy made the grieving process more difficult.
“We’re a pretty private family and didn’t want to end up in the news,” said Stephanie, now CEO of the Center for Public Justice in Washington, D.C. “There was a lot of information out there, and we were like, ‘Could we please just have a funeral for my dad without reporters around?’”
To deal with their loss, the Maiers leaned on their strong Christian faith, on each other, and on the cherished memories of a loving family man.
“In the aftermath, we heard so many great stories about our dad,” Stephanie said. “A lot of them had to do with sports, because for Dad sports was not so much about the competition or winning; it was about people and relationships.”
Stephanie and Krissy didn’t attend many of Frank’s softball games, but they remember a Terminators game when their dad threw a headlock on an opposing player who was venturing toward the pitcher’s mound to argue.
“It was so totally out of character for him,” said Stephanie with a laugh. “He was very protective of other people, so knowing Dad, it was probably more about what the guy was saying about somebody else, not about him.”
A statesman, indeed.
The Iron Horse
Joseph Herman Magnotta, usually just “Mags” in the scorebook, played in 74 straight games for the Terminators, a streak unmatched by any other player.
Most Saturdays, Mags’ routine was, well, routine. As game time approached, his 1987 red Beretta would pull into the parking lot. He’d jump out big as life — Mags went about 6 feet, 240 pounds — wearing a smile, a bandanna over his closely cropped scalp, a T-shirt (usually with the sleeves hacked off) and baseball pants cut off at the knees. His longtime girlfriend, Julie Straub, was usually with him.
An actuary and college math professor, Mags was the best defensive first baseman I ever saw, and when he swung the bat, he put such tremendous topspin on the ball that it seemed to climb forever. Above all, he was Lou Gehrig-dependable. A man of few excuses. A man to count on. We saw those qualities on the softball field without knowing that was simply how he lived his life.
Many years later, in 2009, Mags found himself facing a much different opponent: pancreatic cancer. For the next couple of years, he and Julie crisscrossed the U.S. seeking experimental treatments.
In mid-2011, his Terminators teammates threw a 42nd birthday party for him at a local park, and we hit the softball field for some batting practice. The illness and scores of chemo treatments had trimmed some 50 pounds from his playing days, but Mags still managed to pound a few balls deep.
“I had so much fun just whacking the ball around that I let myself drift back into the past when I was a healthy young man playing competitive softball with my best friends in the world,” Mags wrote in an email.
By late 2011, the cancer had spread to his lungs, liver and stomach. Through it all, Julie remained his primary caregiver, staying by his side during hospital visits and taking care of him at her home, all with a loving smile. By January 2012, his pain was more severe, and it was apparent his last inning was underway.
“The cancer is taking over, and I’m kind of in shutdown mode,” he said. “But I’m cool with it. I’m at peace. I can’t imagine being in a more peaceful place, with family and friends.”
A short time later, on Jan. 26 at 10:17 p.m. — his favorite jersey number had always been 17 — our Iron Horse passed away, relieving his pain and suffering at last.
The Bash Brothers
They were supposed to be named Lisa and Leslie. At least that was Mary Lou Schott’s plan when the doctor said she and her husband, Rich, were going to have twins.
“We already had [13-month-old] Ricky, and I decided I wasn’t going to have another boy,” she said. So much for planned parenthood. When Randy and Ron joined the Schott household, Rich and Mary Lou had their hands full. Accidents happened now and then — Ricky threw a dart that stuck in Ron’s elbow, and Randy got pushed into the kitchen drywall, leaving a hole to match the size of his posterior — and occasionally the cuts and bruises required a visit to the emergency room.
Eventually the boys turned their attention to girls, which is where Marcy Fischer and Lynne Eiben entered the picture. Randy and Marcy married in 1988, and Ronand Lynne did so the following year.
The twins joined the Terminators a couple of years later, and we quickly labeled them the Bash Brothers because they each went about 6-foot-3 and 220 pounds. They didn’t disappoint, usually leading us in home runs and runs batted in. Among their other hobbies was deer hunting, a family affair that eventually included Lynne and Ron’s son, Austin.
Fast forward to the first day of deer season in 2014: The Schott hunters woke up early at camp and trekked into the woods before dawn. After arriving at work, Lynne texted “good morning” to Ron, and he responded in kind. At 10:59 a.m., Ron texted and said Austin, just shy of his 16th birthday, had shot a deer.
Then calamity struck. As Ron knelt to begin gutting the deer, he had a heart attack and could not be resuscitated.
Two days later, on Dec. 3, Randy turned 52, but the pain of his first birthday without his identical twin was unbearable.
“We mostly just had a little cake with the immediate family and cried some,” he said.
At the funeral, Austin wore his dad’s Terminators jacket, a tribute that brought a mix of smiles and chills to Ron’s teammates. Through Facebook, one of Ron’s nieces, Lauren Schott, shared her sentiments: “Uncle Ron was someone I have lived up the street from since I was a little girl. His beaming smile and warm presence was something I always loved about him.”
The following hunting season, Randy and Austin visited the tragic spot again but didn’t linger too long. And nobody in camp shot a deer that week.
The Change Agent
Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, the oldest technological research university in the U.S., prides itself on this motto: Why Not Change the World?
Jeff Petzold, one of our pitchers, graduated from RPI with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in nuclear engineering. He had the detailed, analytical mind of a creator, and he sure changed the world around him, starting with that of his wife, Loreline.
A native of France, Loreline came to the U.S. in 1999 and earned a master of laws degree from the University of Pittsburgh. In 2001 a classmate invited her to the company picnic at Westinghouse, where Jeff was a nuclear engineer.
“He was a big, tall guy showing off playing volleyball,” Loreline said. “I couldn’t help but notice him.”
They dated off and on for several years before getting married in 2007. The couple’s first son, Andreas, was born a year later, and their second, Louis, came four years after that. So by the end of 2012, the world had changed, and Jeff, then approaching his mid-50s, took to his young sons as any father would.
In 2015, Jeff was laid off after 30-plus years at Westinghouse, but he made the best of it by taking care of Andreas, 6, and Louis, 2. He was there every day when Andreas came home from first grade, and he kept Louis home from day care three days a week. They played games, baked brownies, splashed around at the North Park pool and visited museums.
“He spent a lot of time with the kids, and it was a real positive,” Loreline said.
July 23 was a warm summer day, so Jeff and Andreas grabbed their suits and headed for North Park. Jeff decided to swim a few laps as Andreas watched from the side. He swam one length and barely finished a second, then stood in the water with his arms and face lying on the pool deck, struggling to catch his breath and in the throes of cardiac arrest. Lifeguards and emergency responders tried to revive him, but they couldn’t save his life.
Friends and family remember Jeff’s life as full of an indomitable spirit and an infectious laugh, and sports provided a special connection.
Jeff’s nephew, Dustin, visited him in 2015 during the NCAA Basketball Tournament. For Jeff, the tournament was always a good reason to meet with friends and enjoy some beer and wings, and he eagerly introduced Dustin to his buddies.
“It was great to be part of a tradition that was really important to him,” Dustin said.
A tradition that has not been the same without Jeff.
Postgame
For those of us who knew and loved Frank, Mags, Ron and Jeff as family, friends or teammates, perhaps the only comfort comes from the belief that they were called away from us for a higher mission. And that when they take a break from that mission, they gather on a pristine field of dreams with perfectly trimmed green grass in the outfield and infield dirt so fine it slips right through their fingers.
In that softball league, the players always show up on time, the sun always shines, and the good guys always win.
Play ball, boys.