In memory of George Rumore, a Marine, a coach, a mentor, and a man for others.
In memory of George Rumore, a Marine and a man for others
I first met George Rumore at a weekly fastpitch-softball-skills clinic that he held in one of the many warehouses whose interiors were bisected by large nets that formed hitting or pitching lanes. Our oldest daughter had shown some skill in the sport during my tour in San Diego, and these types of sports clinics had increasingly dominated our family life during the offseason, even as the sport itself consumed our weekends during the months from March until November. But this weekly clinic was important. A friend of mine, a fellow softball dad who had more experience in the Northern Virginia area, told me that this clinic was run by the coach who would also be overseeing my daughter’s high-school softball team. The clinic presented an opportunity for new players to learn his way of playing softball and to gently reveal her athletic abilities to the coach prior to tryouts.
The first night I attended the clinic and watched intently from the balcony that overlooked the warehouse floor, my first thought was “He’s former military.” The clinic proceeded with remarkable precision and discipline. Various skills stations were established, and each player proceeded through each of them in a timely fashion. At each station the players were instructed in the manner the coach wanted the skill executed: throwing, catching, fielding grounders, batting, bunting, etc. The two hours flowed like clockwork, and at the end there was a “grand finale” in which Rumore would hit hard grounders to each player. If she fielded it correctly, she went to the back of the line and got to do it again. Missing the ball or incorrectly fielding the ball resulted in her sitting down at the edge of the indoor field. Whoever was the last player standing was congratulated and presented with an archaic plastic Pez candy dispenser capped with the head of some old cartoon character, to great applause. It was “cute,” I thought.
He was respectful of his players as individuals, and patient. There was no yelling. When instructing, George spoke quietly and demonstrated what he wanted done differently. If the pace of the drills faltered, he would shout, “Hey! Hubba-hubba!” to responsive laughs and smiles, and they would pick up their pace. It was impressive. When the event ended, I helped carry his equipment out to his truck. I noted a familiar red and yellow sticker affixed to the vehicle. I smiled. “Marine,” I thought, and it made sense.
George Rumore had enlisted in the Marine Corps before the age of 18, with his mother’s permission. The family was without a father, and young George needed to find a way to provide an income for his mother and younger siblings. He had been told that if he volunteered to go to Vietnam, he would get paid more than if he was drafted. He had a fierce, even pugnacious attitude. He served long, hard months in Vietnam, in a Marine infantry unit. He saw terrible things and witnessed friends killed and horribly wounded. He had lain on a stretcher next to a friend with a tube connecting them, watching his blood flow into another body, only to fail to save him. He later told me that he had prayed often and earnestly to be returned safely home to the United States. He was a practicing Catholic. In exchange for his survival, he promised God that he would try to be a good man, to raise a good family, and to give back to his community in some way. George made it home, and he never forgot his promise.
He worked in maintenance services for both the federal and local government. He paid attention to detail and developed a good reputation as a worker. He continued to take care of his mother and his siblings. He married the love of his life, and they raised two beautiful daughters together. Early photos of him as a young father show him both attending and marching in parades with his girls during summer holidays. He also began to coach boys’ and girls’ youth sports: baseball, basketball, and, of course, softball. It was his way of giving back to the community and keeping his promise. He took sports seriously. He thought it a marvelous way to teach self-discipline and the importance of being part of a team, to be part of something greater than oneself, as he had been in the Marine Corps and as he was within his family.
He never left his military experience far behind. While not a shouter, he was disciplined and applied it evenly. His methodology was exacting, and early in the season he made it a point to teach each player how to dive for the ball. They needed to know how to do it correctly to avoid injury but also to learn that, while, pain was transitory, sacrifice for the team was uplifting. To dive and make a great play resulted in more than an out or the applause of the fans — it resulted in the quiet presentation of a new Pez dispenser after the practice or the game.
Arriving at a game during warmups, visiting teams were often struck by Rumore’s players conducting their “star” drill. With quiet precision, a single ball would zip between infield and outfield positions, in a taut, intricate pattern while music played in the background. As the players silently executed the drill, they warmed up their arms and gloves, increasing velocity with each throw, with ascending levels of pops as the ball smacked into leather gloves. The coach would either stand watching or quietly walk through the quickening array of throws with the quiet assurance of a drill instructor who understood the skills of his squad, and then, just as silently as it began, it would end with a single hard throwback to the catcher, who would gently flip the ball to George, who would begin hitting hard grounders and pop flies with exact precision. If a player lagged in their energy, Rumore would shoot a sharp glance at them and say in an even voice, “Hey! Hubba-hubba!” which would earn a smile and more speed. At the end of the game, the player who had made the biggest impact would receive a Pez dispenser.
Coach Rumore had a remarkable eye for technique. My daughter made his team as a freshman. She was a good ball player, a left-handed pitcher and hitter, but he made her better. Through subtle adjustments to her stance at the plate, how she held her bat, how she swung, she became formidable. The same occurred with her pitching style. The changeup pitch he taught her began to bring college coaches who attended the school’s games right out of their seats, and she wasn’t the only person he impacted. Throughout his coaching career he helped scores of young people in their athletic development by taking the time to really watch them, to study their body mechanics, reading up on batting skills and watching hundreds if not thousands of hours of game tape; he really learned more who they were as much as how they played. Along the way he consistently championed his players in district and regional coaches’ meetings, emerging with positional awards for them at the end of each season. Doing so, he earned his players’ loyalty and love. When my daughter decided to pursue a degree in a hard science, a decision that precluded her from playing college softball despite several scholarship offers, he supported her completely because “softball is not the most important thing in life.” Accordingly, she stopped playing travel softball with club teams during her junior year, but she continued to play for her school and Coach Rumore. She played one more season, as a team captain. Today it’s hard to find the home-run or perfect-game balls we collected across years of softball, but she has one special box that holds every Pez candy dispenser he ever gave her.
Rumore accumulated a remarkable record. As a high-school coach he compiled a 5:1 win–loss ratio, resulting in multiple district and regional championships along the way. Many of his players went on to play in college on full or partial scholarships and have moved on to professional careers in which they comport themselves with the discipline and professionalism taught to them by their coach.
He was also interested in more that wins and losses. Throughout his coaching career he championed Title IX rights for girls’ sports in Northern Virginia. Through his efforts his girls got banks of field lights and covered dugouts, just like the boys’ teams. He worked hard to build their “field of dreams.”
Struck down by a sudden stroke three weeks ago, George Rumore remained unresponsive for days, but then was blessed to awake briefly to talk with his wife and daughters and to hear about the messages that had flowed in from players across the decades and across the country who reached out to tell their coach what he meant to them. He was a Marine who had come home from war promising to make a positive impact, and in the end, he knew that he had. Satisfied that he had kept his word to God all those years ago in the jungles of Vietnam, Coach George Rumore died this past week with his family at his side and hundreds of former players thinking of him and thanking him for the influence that he had had in their lives.
Hubba-hubba, Coach. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” I hope Saint Peter had a Pez dispenser waiting for him at the Pearly Gate. He earned it.