WPCNR PRESS BOX. August 12, 2006: The White Plains Warrior Summer Travel Ball season is over, but the memories linger on forever. Every summer WPHS Coach Ted O'Donnell fields a travel team of prospects and White Plains High School softball players and plays them in the WPBA and in 18-and Under Travel Tournaments. The competition on the higher level hones them and turns them into a team. This summer the clubs, the Westchester Warriors and the White Plains Warriors made up of mostly the same players, with veterans mixed in finished second in their last tournament, won 5 of 7 in an international tournmament in Montreal and lost about 8 games all summer, winning around 35 games.
They played and beat 18-and-under gold teams of All-Stars from different schools and regions. They played topflight organizations and walked off winners. They learned the game. They learned about themselves and each other most of all, they played. The coach, Ted O'Donnell, does not keep track of their record. They can play with anybody. Fastpitch Johnny has penned an ode to Warrior Days for White Plains softball players and fastpitch players of all ages and why they play:
Warrior Days
By Fastpitch Johnny
In the blaze of July’s relentless sun
Daughters of the diamond cavort on the red clay cauldron.
Between white lines the demands of Diamond Days
Dwindle down to precious innings’ humid twilight haze.
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With each pitch, bats get quicker,
Each play instincts and reactions slicker.
Warriors in red and black cross the white lines,
Putting themselves with a thrill into the friendly confines.
Riding the clay sage of the cowboys’ range
The red clay of the diamond makes a girl feel at home on the grange.
The yield and crunch of infield dirt under their Ringors,
The vast emerald the outfield green extend futures beyond time’s rigors
There in splendid colors, teammates in unison bond in skill
Dedicated to the elusive hard game’s thrill,
Defined by harsh slap of fastball in glove,
Clonk of clouted yellow sphere soaring above.
“Up! Up!” they cry, calling on intensity of eye and sharpness of mind
To drive, to deflect, intercept snare drives inclined.
Dashing to gap to nab the impossible screaming snag,
Taking away the hopes of a batter’s belted tag.
Freezing, soaking in chill dawn rains, indifferent cruel drizzles
Sweating in oppressive inferno’s sear , shrugging off rallys’ fizzles,
Driving beyond errors’ dismay, dedicating all to the next play,
Between the lines the Warriors are shaped for future fray
On the paths of righteous dash,
Struggling to beat snap throws with clouds of dusty splash,
Clouds of dust: the gunsmoke of desire. Puttin on strawberries the best makeup
Building skills play-by-play in the daily dustup.
From 5 to 18 they have played, the lure of the brown and green
Taking hold in young hearts, a first love they never forget that makes them dream
From catches with dad and softtosses endless to practice pitches,
Fungos and grounders preparing for the diamond where they suspend time’s treacheries.
In the diamond, they stand alone on what they do, and show their say
The cauldron tests pitch by pitch inning after inning game after game day,
Dreading the next game and wanting it at the same time
Wrestling with the shades of self-doubt and recommitting at the next gametime.
For the Warriors of the diamond, they are never finished.
Each play teaches, shaming, enticing, showcasing with splendid flourish.
Every day’s warmup like the tuneup of an orchestra arouses their love
The cauldron seduces them, slipping on the smell and feel of their trusty leather glove
As fastpitch summer winds down in parched diamonds in faraway places
The time when there are no more games approaches,
Longing for the end of the season and dreading its raproaches,
The rituals of the last games become more precious – the effort polishes.
Every summer it is this way for the Warriors of the Diamond and the same.
Never enough of the hard yellow ball, its indifferences exacting, the diamond’s enthrall.
Failure is defined, success waiting between the lines every time they play ball.
Their every move recorded in the scorebook of indifference,
No move quite good enough for its standard, always the ultimate reference ,
Showing they were in the lineup -- they played in the dust and heat and did not hide.
Or got it done when it counted, and when they didn’t, they tried.
They hit. They fielded, they choked a rally with a grab and catch to joyous accolade.
Now with summer light casting shadows long, they leave the diamond’s glade,
Tanned bv tension, the chaos of the threat, the joy of the rally bataround
The thrill of making the big pitch, the cobra throw, the deft pick, the cutdown
The Warriors: Top Row: Jessica Issaacs, Coach. Lisa Tompkins, Kate Smayda, Sara Lorden.
Middle Row: Juliana Bailey, Michelle Portillo, Shannon Nicholson, Cristina Giansante.
Front Row: Sandra Mastrangelo, Carrie Abbot, Ashley Encarnacao, Dannie Szabo.
So long to Ashley the Warrior heart, tireless wing and stretch extraordinaire, and peerless 3rd Carrie
Shazams to Szabo, Drillin Dannie the snare artist at short and hits that carried
To smackin’ Smayda, good to left and right and backup on the bunt, it’s Kate’s.
With Lashin’ Lisa finding her groove in the gloamin, saves at 1st in the clutch
To Little G in left an antelope to the line and gap, creator of runs in the lates.
To Sandra the Michel-ANGEL-0 behind the plate, Catherine Deneuve of backstops,
Blaster of timely gapster. To Sarah’s timely pickoffs of questing drives, and tablesetting.
To Julie in Centa, roamin in the gloamin’ turning towering drives into outs and
Wills on the basepaths very upsetting.
To Shannon The Little Ace, slight of stature, stopper in the clutch with something extra, Young in age, a Koufax in savvy, with Burdette’s heart, like Matty born to pitch.
To Michelle threat at 1st or 3rd ready to make a play, with keen batting eye. To Tamara, Centerfielder beyond peer with a bat that will get better every year. To Ali with timely stroke who built the WPBA winning rally when they needed a hit.
To the coach, the unflappable O’D—the McGraw of Fastpitch legend
Intense in dusty black cap with stready stream of banter
Base traffic controller artist with loaded sacks, reminding batters to not dip hands, and “get after”
With his patience and repetition the Warriors were fashioned.
More than any man they will meet, more than any experience,
The cauldron of the diamond will have a hold on their hearts.
When hearts say goodbye to the cauldron of the diamond’s brilliance,
When no longer they walk across the white lines, they’ll remember the good parts.
Seasons from now, the cauldron will beckon to all who look upon its mysterious ways.
When they no longer play, remembering when they were between the lines,
When they tried and dreamed, in their dedicated faces and piled pony tails of vigilance.
Fielders, remorseless pitchettes, and dedicated strikers, they’ll remember Warrior Days
