Joe Gatiuan sat behind the Kapa’a Warrior dugout, crouched on a hump of grass, his eyes fixed on a game that will forever carry his name. For over 60 years, baseball has been his life, as a player, a coach,
Joe Gatiuan sat behind the Kapa’a Warrior dugout, crouched on a hump of grass, his eyes fixed on a game that will forever carry his name.
For over 60 years, baseball has been his life, as a player, a coach, and a father of coaches. And at 67, long after his 14 years as skipper in little league dugouts, Joe still came out to watch the Warriors play, and his kids coach.
“That’s my son, Gary,” he said, pointing to a stocky man hunched in front of the Warrior bullpen. “He was a great player, that kid. He pitched for Hilo, did you know that?”
I didn’t. I don’t know Gary Gatiuan. I never knew he played for Kapa’a, or that he was an All Star pitcher in the Kaua’i Interscholastic Federation. I didn’t know what his favorite color was, that he was a St. Louis Cardinal fan, or why he wore the number twenty-four on the back of his jersey.
“Twenty-four,” Joe said, his voice becoming fragile. “That was Jay’s number: 24. When he died last month, Gary almost quit baseball altogether. He took it real hard.”
Jay was only 31-years-old when he died. He discovered he had an enlarged heart in December, and although doctors said he could survive if waited for a surgical transplant, he wouldn’t do it.
“He refused it,” said Joe. “He refused the heart transplant surgery and wanted to let life take its course. He said, ‘1’ve lived life fuller than some 60-year-old men have. When it’s time for me to go, it’s time for me to go.'”
Jay died two months later, a simple bronchial infection was enough to flood his lungs and stop his heart.
As Joe recalled the events that led to his son’s death, a swollen tear formed off the corner of his left eye. He tried hard to fight sadness with acceptance, and sometimes it worked. It seemed all he had to do was picture Jay standing along the baseline of the diamond, waiting for the signal to steal, sprinting to second off a fence-shot, or rounding third on a homer to left-center. He saw him laugh, he saw him cry. He remembered how he used to terrorize the water jug after he mis-read a generous pitch.
“Jay always showed his emotions on the baseball field,” Joe admits.
But when it sinks in. When the thought that Jay will never swing another bat, pitch another ball or throw his helmet at a dugout wall, Joe calms. He lifts his glasses just above his eyebrows, turns his head away, and allows a single tear to trickle down his cheek.
“That’s my son Gary,” Joe repeated, pointing at the same hunched figure next to the dugout. “He’s a good kid.”
It was hard for me to understand why he was fixed on Gary, why an interview that was supposed to be about Jay always turned back to his eldest son. Was Joe trying to avoid talking about the pain of loss? Did it hurt too much?
“Kapa’a coaches and friends told Gary he has to coach this season,” Joe continued. “That he shouldn’t quit. I was so proud when he put on that uniform and attended practice. Gary needs to be out there.”
And the kids need him, too.
“There were so many people at the funeral, some old, some young,” said Joe. All of these kids Jay coached. Adults I coached but forgot along the way. And then, something I never expected happened…”
Well over 20 Kapa’a Warrior baseball players, in uniform, lined like the 75th Battalion and armed with caps and youthful innocence, marched in a procession only a true leader could deserve. The girl’s softball team, which Jay coached for much of the 1990’s, also came dressed, their uniforms reissued from the fall season.
“At that point, I lost it,” said Joe. “We all lost it.”
But where was the surprise, Joe? Jay coached for 14 years, sometimes taking on two or three little league teams and the KIF at the same time. He crossed many young ball players in his 31 years, and many of the Kapa’a Warriors of today were Jay’s players in the past.
And you didn’t expect the Warriors would be there?
What slipped by Joe in his lifetime of baseball was the impact he had on young athletes throughout his career. All of the people who remembered him; who cherished his leadership. Only through Jay did he realize what his legacy was all about.
“Gary was a good ball player. A pitcher, did you know that?”
Yes, I did, Joe. And he makes for a helluva coach, too. You should be proud of Gary. He won’t let what you started 60 years ago die. He won’t let the Gatiuan baseball tradition die.
He won’t let Jay’s name die.
