Coach William B. Arce, my “Coach”, my Mentor: I will miss you. You were always “Coach”, until one day, you said to call you “Bill”. I know that you have been coach and mentor to a few hundred young men, and I count my blessings to have been one of them. You have meant so much to me and to my family for more than 50 years that it is difficult to completely embrace the meaning.
First, let me say that you had the same values, the sense of right and wrong, as my own father had. That was a good thing, especially for a bunch of 17 and 18 year-old kids away from home for the first time. Plus, you had a great deal more patience than my Dad, which was a GREAT attribute. These formed the basis for the immediate respect I had for you as a man, and as a teacher of baseball.
Next, you showed faith in me and in my peers as young men and as baseball players. In the bargain, you required of us a responsibility to each other, to you, and the school. It is impossible to explain how important it was to me personally to be selected to go to Holland as part of your group of players (as a mere sophomore), and to find out that I was in your plans for Stag baseball thereafter. It was a highly motivating standard, without question.
In those first four years, we learned more than just some fundamentals and finer points of the game. We learned, by example, when it was okay to grumble at the umpire (and when it wasn’t…usually by a word of reprimand); we learned what could be said, and importantly, what couldn’t (my personal favorite: “shake your head Ump, your eyeballs are stuck!”). And, never let your voice be the single voice that everyone else could hear.
We learned, usually at the expense of one of our own, a number of other useful lessons. One example: if Coach chewed, we could chew. But, it wasn’t okay to chew if you slid into third base, gagged on the chew, and had to leave the game. If Coach didn’t chew, you didn’t either. Another example: if Coach said to get a haircut or sit out the start of a playoff game, it meant ‘get a haircut’, not a trim so you could still play in your rock band. Another one that stuck: I was probably more than 50 years old when I had my first beer with you. Some lines are bright chalk in the sun.
Life’s little rules built character and built teams, and we learned them, had them reinforced and modeled by you; for me, they stood me well in my professional career (as a scientist!), and later as a coach in youth and high school sports. My own sons owe you a lot indirectly in that regard, but also directly because they remember advice you gave them as little guys and as high school-aged athletes whenever I’d bring them on campus.
Coach, you had an amazing memory for people, events, and stories; you always seemed to know what was going on in our lives long after we were launched, and never failed to ask how things were going. When I retired, you were concerned that I might not have enough to keep me busy, and that somehow, it could mean my early demise. When I told you I was coaching high school baseball, you just chuckled and said that was plenty to keep me occupied. In those years, I enjoyed the occasional times I could sit in the stands to watch the Stags with you, and pick your brain about coaching, reminisce, and talk shop.
One of my favorite times spent with you was just a few years ago, with a handful of the Holland bunch in a pizza joint in Claremont; you started telling us stories about the Battle of the Bulge in WWII. I had not heard your stories before, and I think that we were like a group of little kids sitting there, hanging on every word. Thank you for sharing with us.
I am grateful that our lot of “Vintage” alums could pull off a birthday celebration and Holland Reunion last year to celebrate your 90th year as well as the 50th anniversary of the Holland Baseball Project. And, I’m grateful for the few hours I was able to spend on the field with you at this year’s Alumni games. I will treasure those times as much as I will miss you and your friendship and wisdom.