Sometimes I feel as though my one saving grace in life is distraction. It allows my busy mind to become even busier. This brings me comfort, and it’s the way I like things to be.

So it came as no surprise when memories started flooding in one early August morning after I came across an old autographed baseball from 1984 tucked away in a musty corner of my garage.

“League Champions” was written neatly across the front of the faded leather ball, adorned with the signatures of the 9- and 10-year-old boys I coached that summer in Glenwood Little League. During my college years, coming back home to coach in the Old Timers Association, as the league was then called, was less a job than a precursor to a rewarding life spent with young athletes. It was a labor of love.

At times, we notice the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends. But it’s clear to me that a day passes through a multitude of shades with each moment. A single hour can consist of many colors. I thought of all the tones and hues as I read through the signatures on that old stitched-up ball.

These are the names of the perpetual survivors from my youth, each with a story to tell: Freddy Flohr, Adam Wiggins, Dirk Bird, Jon Pressler, Jeremy Murphy, Chad King, Jason Miller, Tom Gore and Stephen Davis.

The last name brought an immediate smile to my face: “Fluffy Duck.” That was the nickname my brother and I gave to Joey Luetke, who sported a close-cropped summer haircut that looked like a baby duck’s crown of feathers. Joey was our catcher, and he seemed to wear the name like a badge of honor. When our paths cross these days, I still call him by that name.

I decided the ball should belong to him. Joey is now a successful businessman in Glenwood with a family of his own. The morning I presented him with the ball, I struggled to hold back my emotions. He surveyed the names and also became misty-eyed.

I know the colors that filled my world that morning. It was a distraction of the best kind. For me, these boys will never be left behind. They represent a puzzle of realization, surprise and joy.

Old memories can offer a map to grace, as long as you know where you are going. I hope the boys remember what we always talked about: It’s not how many times you get knocked down, it’s how many times you get back up.

For all the beautiful colors you gave me then and now, thank you, boys.

Remembering Coach Stubler

Last week, during an overcrowded, bumper-to-bumper drive down Grand Avenue, I recalled the summer days when Glenwood Springs High School Coach Nick Stubler would finish mowing chores and drive the old green John Deere tractor out on Grand to clip the lawn at the Vocational Tech Center just south of town.

Back in the late 1970s, traffic in Glenwood was little more than a trickle. Coach, with his trademark pipe protruding from his mouth, would proudly take up an entire lane driving the mower to and from his destination.

That scenario probably wouldn’t work out well for him in 2025. But if anyone had the audacity to try it, my bet would be on Coach Stubler.