Sunday Extra

Players get more than just a game

A local team shows that wheelchair softball provides fun and a sense of fulfillment.

By DAVE SCHEIBER
Published May 1, 2005

	[Times photos: Bill Serne]
	Doyle Mann prepares to field the ball during a recent practice at Hit Masters in Tampa.
	Tracy Wilkerson takes some cuts at the indoor batting cages during a recent Devil Rays Wheelchair Softball Team practice.

TAMPA - Their field of dreams is an empty, pockmarked parking lot that faces the back of a CVS drug store and Firestone tire shop, unseen by the motorists whooshing by on Hillsborough Avenue.

The worn asphalt is dotted with cigarette butts and dead leaves, hardly the cinematic equivalent of swaying corn husks and ghostly baseball greats stepping from the Iowa shadows.

Still, nearly every Saturday morning this spring, a palpable spirit emerges on the lot in front of Hit Master indoor batting facility.

It materializes in the form of a love for a game, one that until last year was beyond the reach of a Tampa man who longed to play it - and who wanted to let others like himself have the chance to play it, too.

Doyle Mann - starting shortstop, manager and team founder - sets himself, eyes fixed on the ball bouncing his way. As softballs go, the sphere is a bit out of the ordinary: 16 inches in diameter and just spongy enough to allow a fielder to snag it barehanded without getting hurt.

Before it arrives, Mann reaches down to steady a tire on his sleek sports wheelchair. It features ultra-thin wheels that fan out to provide extra balance, a light frame and an additional small rollerblade-like wheel that can help him turn on a dime.

He does just that, grabbing the grounder with his right hand, pivoting in his chair and whipping the ball to first baseman Ron Richardson, who extends his long arm to make a one-handed catch for the out.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" yells Richardson.

On this morning, Mann's team must work around an unwanted obstacle. It's not the crevices or potholes that can cause a wheelchair to toss its occupant. Somebody left a car parked overnight in the middle of the lot, in shallow rightfield.

But life goes on. And so does another Saturday practice session for the Devil Rays Wheelchair Softball Team, the only one of its kind in the Southeastern United States.

Mann built it. And they have come.

He was born with spina bifida - a congenital opening in the spinal column - and needed braces to walk. But he still loved shooting baskets in gym class, playing baseball on a makeshift diamond in his yard in rural Tennessee, and serving as manager of his high school baseball team.

As an adult, Mann earns a living selling wheelchairs and medical equipment to the newly injured, encouraging them to become active again.

Of course, he never misses a chance to pitch the merits of his new softball team.

But it's not just about playing a version of America's pastime. To Mann, 45, it's about helping people who have lost a part of themselves - in often sudden, devastating fashion - to get back in the game and play as if there are no boundaries.

"This sport, or any wheelchair sport, gives people a sense of fulfillment that they're a real person," he says. "They're not just half a person that they might have thought they were. That's the key for me."

Mann has assembled a diverse squad of men and women, young and old. Some played baseball or softball before and jumped at the chance to do so again. Some are standouts in wheelchair sports such as tennis, basketball and cycling. Others knew nothing about the game but showed up because of Mann's enthusiasm and gentle prodding.

"When Doyle first called me, I said, "You must be crazy!"' recalls Richardson, a longtime wheelchair basketball hotshot. "I mean, when we had a basketball team, we never knew if we'd get five people out there. So nine or 10?"

But the roster now numbers 17. And last August, after just six months of play, the team made its surprise debut in the National Wheelchair Softball Association Tournament against clubs sponsored by the big-league Cubs, Twins, Red Sox, Mets and more.

Along the way, Mann and Co. landed the support - caps and jerseys, a recent $2,500 check and official affiliation - of the major league Tampa Bay Devil Rays. They got another $2,500 from the Florida Gulf Coast Paralyzed Veterans of America. And this coming weekend, they'll host a "spring training" tourney featuring the Cubs and Columbus (Ohio) Pioneers.

"I'm just so proud of what we've accomplished so quickly," he says, "and of everyone on this team."

Not far from her husband, Natalie Mann is on the move as usual. Wearing a pair of small Devil Rays earrings, the perennially upbeat woman known to the team as "Mama Ray" stands to the side and cheers the players as they take their cuts at the plate during an informal scrimmage.

Before the 9 a.m. practice begins, she has swept the debris off the pavement. But she's still got endless details to sort out for the tournament.

"Last year, we were the Bad News Bears in wheelchairs," says Natalie, 43, laughing. "When we came out last year, we thought, "Is there any hope?' "

Then again, the Manns are used to challenges.

Their paths crossed out of adversity. Natalie's sister had been paralyzed in a car accident in Tennessee. Later, she began to play wheelchair tennis, and Natalie rooted her on at tournaments. That's where she met an ace wheelchair tennis player named Doyle Mann. They fell in love and married on March 20, 1994.

"Doyle was a major Cards fan, and he picked the 20th because it was the number of his favorite player, Lou Brock, and he knew he could remember that," she says. "I said, "All right, no excuses now!"'

They honeymooned at Al Lang Stadium, watching the Cardinals in spring training. Soon after, wanting a fresh start, they moved to the Tampa Bay area so they would never miss seeing the Cardinals. Mann went to work for A-Ability, a Tampa medical supplies company. Unfortunately, the Cards moved in 1998 when the infant Devil Rays began training in St. Petersburg.

Still, the couple liked the idea of rooting for a new team and became diehard fans. In 2003, the Rays let them renew their 10-year vows on the Al Lang infield at Progress Energy Park.

Things really got interesting, though, two summers ago when Mann read about wheelchair softball. He called a member of the Columbus team, peppered him with questions and came home from work to tell Natalie that if they could take a trip to Ohio, he might get to play in a tournament.

They went, and Mann did get to play - a lot. He was in heaven. Soon after returning, he started urging friends to come out and play. He met with Devil Rays GM Chuck LaMar and public relations chief Rick Vaughn, and they were moved to sponsor him.

By summer, with the springboard of big-league backing, the team was ready to roll.

A new player has shown up for practice.

His name is Jerry Smith, and he arrives with his father. Mann had recently helped Smith, 20, obtain a wheelchair and encouraged him to play with the team. But Smith, barely eight months removed from a life-changing trauma, wasn't interested.

Still, his girlfriend and dad convinced to him give it a shot. He says little and initially has a tough time adjusting to groundballs and swinging. But his natural athletic skills as a high school baseball player and martial artist help him get the hang of things.

During a break, the team's starting second baseman, Tracy Wilkerson, approaches Smith. She knows about pain and coping. Almost 10 years ago, she was in Air Force combat training at Fort Dix, N.J. Climbing a cargo net on an obstacle course, she fell 25 feet off a wall. She was paralyzed instantly.

"How'd you get hurt," asks Wilkerson, 31, whose husband, Shayne, is one of two able-bodied coaches on the team along with Steve Truels.

"I got shot in the back," he says.

"What branch of the service?" she asks.

"No," Smith replies. "It was a carjacking."

He struggled with the thug's gun and was shot first in the leg, then in the spine as Smith sped away.

In fact, everyone on the team has been dealt a harsh blow but has fought through the hardships.

There's pitcher and infielder Dennis Mason, 60, of Lakeland. As a medic in Vietnam, he was hit by a rifle grenade in 1967 and lost both legs. Mason has taught social studies for 33 years in Lakeland, and has been named teacher of the year at both Lakeland High and George Jenkins High. He was also honored three times as the Polk County area's top high school tennis coach and was a top-ranked wheelchair tennis player in the 1980s.

First baseman Richardson of Tampa was inspecting a broken forklift in 1993 when it fell and crushed his leg. These days Richardson, 50, restores cars and is a multisport wheelchair standout who gives demonstrations and inspirational talks to students.

Outfielder Shelton Mobley was jet-skiing with a friend in 2000 off Gandy Beach but lost his bearings momentarily and collided with his friend's jet ski. He lost his left leg. The amateur body builder and hoops fanatic at first refused to play wheelchair sports.

"In my mind then, it was just a bunch of cripples pushing around," Mobley says. "It didn't sound exciting." But Mobley finally gave in to the advice of a fellow amputee and fell in love with wheelchair basketball.

"It inspired me to go back to college and changed my whole life," says Mobley, 28, who wants to pursue a career in sleep studies.

Infielder Danny McKenna was shot in a home invasion in Jacksonville in 1991. The bullet pierced his lung and liver before hitting his spine. Later, he tried to continue his job as an electronics repairman, but working in a wheelchair was difficult. He moved to Clearwater for physical therapy and changed careers. Today, McKenna, 41, excels in wheelchair cycling and karate, and serves as vice president of the Spinal Cord Injury Outreach Network.

Pitcher Tom Krizka was left paralyzed as a high-functioning quadriplegic in a racing accident in Wisconsin 30 years ago. He left his auto repair shop near Chicago and earned a degree in therapeutic recreation, but his passion was wheelchair softball, playing 14 seasons for the Chicago team.

He's the wily veteran of Mann's team. A resident of Arcadia, the 45-year-old Krizka commutes to Fort Meyers to work as a Sony repairman - and drives two hours each Saturday to softball practice in Tampa.

As for Wilkerson, she and her husband had been dating at the time of the accident and married five years later. She started a career in marketing, became a world-ranked wheelchair tennis player and three years ago gave birth to a baby boy, Kyle.

Smith is still adjusting. He's thinking about studying computers. Things aren't easy, but softball has given him something to look forward to.

"Doyle's like my angel," he says. "It's like he just appeared when I was still in the hospital. He got me chair after chair. And now he's brought me out here. He's been the best thing to happen to me so far."

For weeks, the Manns have been frantically trying to secure a site for their tournament. Since wheelchair softball has to be played on a wide-open, hard surface, they first zeroed in on the parking lot at Hillsborough Community College.

But delays caused by construction turned their attention back to Hit Master. Owner Paul Russo has made the place completely available to the team - the batting cages inside and the parking lot on Saturday mornings before the place gets busy.

"Paul's been like our fairy godfather," Natalie says. "He's trying to raise funds himself for a Miracle League field in the back for disabled kids. But he's let us have everything we want here."

Despite some of the glitches in the lot, it's the best option for the upcoming tournament. There aren't enough funds to fill all the cracks and holes, but the Manns have paid for some patchwork. And instead of painted field lines, as many northern teams have, white duct tape will have to do.

Meanwhile, Natalie has been working the phone.

Shell's seafood restaurant is donating lunch to the teams on Saturday; Hooters is providing wings on Sunday; Hawaiian Tropic is kicking in sun screen and T-shirts; a graphic artist at Lantana Embroidery Studio has designed a tournament logo for the shirts; A-Ability and Mobility Transportation Systems are donating a wheelchair-accessible van for a raffle.

Mann has learned how to mobilize fast. He scrambled to get his team to Columbus last June for a tournament test run. It went 0-for-4. Then came the trip to Omaha in August for the nationals, made possible by an $8,000 contribution from a friend at the Tennessee Wheelchair Athletic Association.

The Rays started poorly, thumped by the Twins 15-0 and the St. Louis Rams 12-0, dropping them to the Division II bracket. But a breakthrough followed - a 6-0 win over the St. Paul Thunder. Then the Rays erased a 3-0 deficit to defeat a team from Illinois 7-3.

The streak, however, ended with an 18-7 loss to the eventual Division II winners, the Wisconsin Badgers. So it was down to the final game, against the New England Paralyzed Veterans Association Red Sox of Boston. The Rays trailed 4-2 going into the top of the seventh and final inning and pulled within 4-3 with a runner on third before the rally fell short.

But as it turned out, their two wins were good enough for third-place in Division II. Mann and the Rays savored the moment as if they'd won the World Series, holding the trophy sky-high.

And there was more good news: Wilkerson was voted to the all-tourney team as second baseman and Krizka earned top quadriplegic honors.

But there is no time to rest. Mann is trying to raise funds to take the team to Columbus for the 29th NWSA tourney in August and build a permanent field for a dream to grow.

"The great thing about wheelchair softball, and any wheelchair sport, is you end up thinking about the competition," he says, "not the obstacles."

[Last modified April 30, 2005, 23:59:18]