Back in 4th and 5th grade, I was in little league. Organized sports were never my thing, but realizing I actually did have a lot of fun at pick up games with other kids on the CB base, I went to tryouts and made a team.
For the next two years, I spent summers on the Gulfport little league fields across from Marine Life. Unfortunately, true to my suspicions, it was actually kind of boring. While my teammates were pretty cool, none of them were part of the crew I played with on base, and neither were any of them classmates from school.
The fact that baseball is a pretty sedate sport didn't help the tedium. When my team was at bat, and I was in the dugout waiting my turn, it was easy for my mind to wander. When the wind was right, I'd catch a whiff off the burgers and hotdogs cooking on the grill behind the concession stand. "Man, a hot dog would hit the spot right about now." The game in front of me started to fade away, replaced by visions of a pair of ballpark hotdogs. "With ketchup." I smiled at the thought of loading up on the condiments. "And relish, too."
There were multiple ball fields and at any given time, a local radio station was playing from one of their loudspeakers. This one evening, Kenny Rogers's "The Gambler" was piped through. I loved that song. This was smack in the middle of my country music years and with the rhinestone suits, epic beard, and gravelly voice, I just thought Rogers was the absolute shiznit. Back then and to this day I still know the lyrics to his biggest hits: "Coward of the County", "Lucille", and of course, "The Gambler".
I slouched back on the bench, pulled my cap down low, and let the song set the scene. Riding a 19th-century steam locomotive in the middle of the night, destination unknown, sounded like a magnificent adventure. Unlike the plush velvet settees enjoyed by riders up in first class, I found myself in a simple pinewood booth, the bench seats polished mirror-smooth by the back ends of countless passengers. A table took the space between me and the opposing bench and there, opposite me, would be the Gambler himself.
Cards were dealt, chips were tossed, and he spoke. "Well, we're waiting on you." I would not be rushed, because every card player knows survival depends on the cards you keep and what you toss. I took another slow, deliberate glance at my hand. "I SAID, 'WE'RE WAITING ON YOU!!'"
I blinked and Coach's face was mere inches from my own. "Grab your gear and hit the field, Capuyan!" My reverie broken, I looked quickly from Coach to the field where the rest of the team was taking their positions. "Were you daydreaming about burgers again?!"
"Hotdogs."
"WHAT!?!" I donned my glove and high tailed it to the outfield.
"Nothing, Coach. Sorry, Coach."
Kenny Rogers, a country music Hall of Famer with 60 years in the industry, passed away in late March. It was noted shortly afterward that his cashing out at the start of a global pandemic was the most badass play on "Know when to fold 'em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run."
Ultimately, "The Gambler" wasn't about poker. The character that came to define Kenny Rogers himself was bestowing a life lesson, an "ace" that you could keep:
"You can't control the cards you're dealt, but you can damn play the hell out of the cards you've got."
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