Rumor has it my father was not at the hospital when I was born. It was April 22, 1975, he was a baseball coach, and his team was playing. And even though it wasn’t as commonplace for fathers to be in the delivery room those days, as it turns out, it was one of the only times he hasn’t been there for me.
I grew up on a baseball field, literally, and I don’t have any recollection of my “first” game or anything, but I do know that baseball was home. I can’t remember a birthday growing up that wasn’t spent at the park, like Alumni Field or various other venues around New England. And unlike other girls, whose birthday parties were filled with friends from school, mine were populated by baseball parents and players along with the occasional stranger/fan who happened to be at the park that day. And though it may sound odd, it was completely normal for me.
My year revolved around the seasons of baseball. Fall ball, the Christmas party, indoor practices to start the season, spring break, the conference tournament/postseason, summer recruiting and camps.
Baseball has taught me both love and heartache, plenty of times. And in those moments, I was always surrounded by family. My mom. My dad. My brothers. But not just them. My baseball family. And anyone who is in the trenches of baseball knows this family. They can conjure up the image in their mind of their baseball family. And for those not in the know, my baseball family consists of not only my immediate family, but the players who played for my father, the players’ families, their girlfriends, their friends. These people made up my family. The Handlers. The Lavallees. The Murphys. The Crosbys. The Lyons. The Zoo Crew. They, and so many more, made up my family. They are my family.
Growing up, there was a freedom that I found through baseball. On the baseball field—well, at the baseball field, I should say—I could run and play to my heart’s content. I remember playing with my brother and the other coach’s children, running and rolling down the hill on the third-base side. Picnicking on the little hill on the first-base side. I had free roam, back in those days. Wandering up and down the bleachers, running around the sidewalks. Rollerskating down the little driveway behind home plate, behind The Raynor Shack (the concession stand).
Yes, there were games going on: the main action was happening on the field. But not for me. At least not as a child. For me, the action was everywhere surrounding the field. Running around with friends, exploring, adventuring, laughing, and playing.
I recall one specific milestone on the field when I went from sitting in the bleachers doing homework during practice to grading papers as a teacher in the same settings. I know baseball is a sport for many, but it’s home for me, a place where I’ve always felt at home. Felt secure. Felt confident. It’s where I feel the most myself. Where I feel the most sense of peace.
Growing up, I couldn’t have been prouder to be “Coach Holowaty’s daughter.” As the story goes, I would often find my way to my father in times where no one else would, particularly in the moments after he had been thrown out of a game, for example, while everyone else stayed far away.
Of course, over time, I wanted my own identity, as Jenn Holowaty. I wanted to be my own entity, outside of my father, which was challenging as we were at the same college at the time. But I managed, graduated, and started to move into my own life. And of course, over time, I realized that being Coach Holowaty’s daughter...I don’t think there’s anything I’m more proud of.
Baseball—and my father—have given me so much. They taught me invaluable lessons, such as the value of teamwork, that have enabled me to acclimate into roles that better help me fit into a larger group. I’ve learned that while winning is intoxicating, losing is what teaches us the lessons that really matter. I’ve learned how to reflect, modify, and proceed—and the importance of doing just that, in that order. I’ve learned how to lean into the difficult—whether or not I like it— in order to develop and achieve. And I have become mentally stronger, thicker-skinned, and more focused on the little things that lead to bigger things. After all, it’s the mastering of fundamentals that leads to the ability to execute, which leads to the wins we are seeking.
And beyond the cliched lessons that sports teach us, I’ve learned about love, about loyalty, and about family. I can’t remember when I began to learn these lessons, but they’ve been ingrained into my father’s being, and thus into his program. Family was always a priority for my father and his teams. The stands were often filled with mothers and fathers, the occasional grandparent, the sporadic aunt and uncle. Even away games were peppered with our fans, and often included some sort of picnic or gathering (after all, who goes to a baseball game without food— another invaluable lesson!).
I can still remember riding to New Jersey with Mr. and Mrs. Susi, the times when the Paquettes picked me up from Stonehill, and when the Worthingtons would pick me up at the hotel in Florida to take me to that day’s game during the team’s spring break trip. I can still taste the fresh pineapple they brought with them that day.
Beyond the transportation, I remember Mrs. Lyons’ genuine interest in me, what I was doing, what I was studying, whatever I was into. My time with her evolved into a mentorship that helped mold me into the educator I am today. I remember the birthday cake Tom Irvine’s mother made for me, a bonnet-shaped cake with purple accents (my favorite color at the time, obviously). I remember the endless laughter in the stands anytime Mrs. Handler was around, and the shock on all of our faces when one of the girlfriends fell through the bleachers (and maybe some endless laughter too).
I remember the camaraderie of our baseball family, the post-game picnics, the annual Christmas party, complete with off-key carols sung by the freshmen. Never has our house been so alive, so filled with laughter, so filled with family.
I have 37 years worth of memories on a baseball field, and though my father retired in 2012, that hasn’t meant that I’ve lost that family. In fact, some might argue it’s become stronger. And baseball still remains a part of who I am. My annual trip to Omaha with my dad for opening weekend of the College World Series is the trip I look forward to the most. College baseball is still an integral part of my weekends in the spring. And then there’s that sense of sadness, of emptiness when each season ends.
Coaching can be a solitary profession, but it doesn’t have to be. To all the coaches out there, I ask you this: bring your children with you to the ballpark. Invite them to team activities. Have that post-game gathering with players’ families (and yours) that you’ve always thought about having. Bring together your two worlds. It might seem difficult, but like the lessons we’ve learned from baseball, it’s worth it! The memories you make will live with you always, and the memories your children make will shape them forever.
As a coach, you have the power to change lives, not the least of which are your own children’s. And take it from this coach’s daughter: there’s no place like home...especially when it’s on the diamond.
Bill Holowaty served as Eastern Connecticut State’s director of athletics for 14 years and its head baseball coach for 45. His 1,412 wins rank among the most all-time at any level of collegiate baseball. His teams brought home four national championships and won 30 or more games 28 times. Holowaty was inducted into the ABCA Hall of Fame in 2015.