I have no delusions of grandeur. I have limited athletic ability.

While playing sports as a kid, I tried to make the most of what talent I had. I was never the worst player on the field, but I was far from the best.

Of course, back then, I didn't have such a keen sense of who I was and what my limitations were.

The hard work I put in to crack the starting lineup of my youth baseball team gave me a sense of entitlement that came back to haunt me.

My baseball coach followed my group up through the ranks. As we moved to a higher level, he came with us.

I grew fond of him, despite some of the tactics he used.

During one game, I struck out looking four times. The next day, during batting practice, he sent me to the plate without a bat.

Pitch after pitch cut through the summer air with a sizzle right by me. I was powerless to do anything about it without a piece of lumber to grip until my knuckles turned red.

The lesson? If you are going to go to the plate with a bat, swing it once in a while.

I loathed him for that lesson. When I complained to my father, he shook his head and said, "He's the coach. He was making a point. Listen to him."

I understood the method to his madness and got over it.

That stunt paled in comparison to what I thought was the ultimate fastball to the head.

After years of being a role player, I cracked the starting lineup at second base during my last season in youth baseball.

I didn't have a good year, but it certainly wasn't a bad one. For once, our team was decent and had a chance to make the playoffs.

The day before our final game, I had a practice that would have made Allen Iverson boo me.

When gameday rolled around, I wasn't in the starting lineup for the first time all season. I was stunned. Shocked. And spitting mad.

We lost. It was my coach's last game and my last game, too. I harbored a grudge.

Years later, I ran into him. I walked up to him and said, "You ruined what could have been my best sports memory."

He took a sip of his coffee, smiled and said, "Well, you ruined what could have been my best lineup."

Just like that, years of resentment melted away as we shared a laugh. He had that way about him, a knack of disarming you like a one-man bomb squad. We spent the next hour talking about old times.

I think of him now and realize coaches like that are virtually extinct. He ruled with an iron hand. He did things that few coaches could get away with now.

I see kids who are defiant and full of themselves, parents who browbeat coaches because their child doesn't play enough, and I wonder how my baseball coach would survive in these times.

Not well. In fact, he wouldn't have made it through a season before angry hoards with torches and pitchforks ran him out of town.

And I wouldn't have learned those tough lessons that helped me far beyond baseball.

Mike Kilroy is a staff writer for the Butler Eagle.