By Abby Lusk
Failure—it’s actually an option. Sometimes it can lead to beautiful things in the most tragic way.
Mike Lusk always dreamed of playing Major League baseball. He fell in love with the game at an early age while he’d throw with his dad. “Papa used to pitch to him when he was about 8,” his sister Michelle Toney says, “He would be so angry because Papa hurt his hand. He’d cry, and throw it back to pop as hard as he could.”
The passion he had formed a hardworking, dedicated player who would do anything to make his dreams a reality.
At 15, Lusk was already winning awards for his dedication. An article published in Beckley, West Virginia proclaimed, “Mike Lusk of Batteries Inc. is the Beckley Babe Ruth League Most Valuable Player for 1981.” Above this sentence there is a goofy looking 15-year-old with a big awkward smile holding a huge trophy. The trophy wasn’t made of real gold, but his heart was.
Despite his gentle nature, there was no messing around when it came to baseball. Being a lefty, Lusk had an advantage. Hitters never knew where the ball was going, especially because his fastball averaged around 82 mph.
Motivation never ran short in the Lusk family. “He tried baseball, basketball, and football from elementary school all the way up to high school,” Angie says, “He only really cared for baseball. Papa Lusk played with him so much and made him what he was. He followed him to every game no matter how far.”
Lusk had his great games and some not so great. Sometimes he’d take his teammates on a ride—losing and regaining their trust all in the same game. He was always trying to make himself better. Sometimes he would go just a little too hard, but he usually had some tricks up his sleeve. Meanwhile, Papa Lusk watched him with undivided attention.
Mike’s father worked as a coal miner for most of his life. One day a flash of an extremely bright light in the mine blinded him for a few days. That didn’t stop him from attending his son’s baseball game. He wanted to at least hear Mike play. Who can blame him? The repetitive sound of the referee yelling, “Strike three! You’re out!” was music to his ears.
Local sports writer Steve Locklin covered the high school game Mike threw a one-hitter, striking out 15. He maintained control over the mound throughout most of the game, but began the first few innings a little too excited. “Control problems hurt Lusk again in the third,” Locklin wrote. “After an error and a sacrifice, he walked Lowery and Moody again to load the bases. Crouch drilled a fast ball right back at Lusk, who knocked it down and threw Crouch out as Thompson scored. Another strike out ended this inning.”
Lusk’s team trusted his ability to get the job done. “I think he was a little bit hyper in the beginning,” a teammate told Locklin, “but he showed the type of pitcher he is by settling down there.”
The game was part of a learning experience to Lusk. When asked about his ludicrous first few innings, Lusk said, simply, “I just realized I didn’t have to throw so hard.” That was Mike—always humble, kind, and to the point. His efforts landed him in the Woodrow Wilson High school hall of fame. Soon, he had to answer one of the biggest questions of his life—not if he was going to play in college, but where he was going to play.
Mike knew he had a chance at the big leagues after the Pittsburg Pirates contacted him. They started keeping an eye on him during his sophomore year of high school. Between his junior and senior years of high school, he was called to Winterhaven, Fla. to the Pirates’ pitching camp. They were already prepared to sign him for their Class A Rookie League, but Lusk called for a rain check because he wanted to go to college before he began his professional baseball career.
Lusk had multiple opportunities to consider. His toughest question: which college would launch him further toward his potential career and life-long dream? A local school, West Virginia, Duke and others were not an option despite their offer of a full scholarship. Lucky for Lusk, the coach of Belmont’s baseball team was also from West Virginia. He discovered Mike at his high school state finals and offered him a partial scholarship. Mike’s family encouraged him to pursue his dreams, move to Nashville, and go on to become the all-star he was meant to be. After thinking long and hard, Lusk set out to do just that.
But Lusk’s Major League dreams were dashed in 1987, his junior year at Belmont.
Since he was 15, Lusk threw the ball as hard as he could. That effort eventually took a toll on his on his pitching arm which, over time, resulted in tendonitis. The injury forced him to sit out his senior season, and his dreams came to a screeching halt. What would he do without baseball—his favorite thing in the world? All that time, dedication, and energy, for what? He didn’t know what was in store for his future, but still finished college with a Bachelor’s Degree in Finance.
After college, Lusk began a career as an accountant for a fast food restaurant. As usual, Mike had a backup plan—a different angle to find his way to success. He wasn’t just athletic, he was also extremely intelligent and creative. In order to be able to have time to apply for jobs, he left his accounting job for a lower-paying job as a semi-truck washer. He hated it.
After years of saving money, working hard, and applying for jobs, Mike became a supervisor for Conway. He was so efficient at that job, it took three or four people to replace him. Fortunately, Lusk stayed in Nashville after college and met the woman of his dreams. Suzie was a triple-threat—smart, sweet, and beautiful. The two looked like Sandy and Danny from Grease—laughing and smiling all the time. If Mike never hurt his arm, he would have continued to play baseball and be signed for a team to play who knows where. He would have never met his dream girl. Most importantly—to me— if he never hurt his arm, I would not be writing this, because I wouldn’t exist.
Mike’s passion for baseball remained years after his arm gave out. Even though he couldn’t live out his dream, he got to do the next best thing: marry an amazing woman, join a softball team at his church, and coach little league teams. As soon as his first son, Cameron, turned 4, he signed him up for a YMCA pee-wee league. Mike continued to coach his son as he grew older. He was always so invested in the lives of his players. He didn’t mind spending extra time with his players, working on pop-ups, grounders, and even answering questions about life. As everyone has always told me, his players loved him so much. He knew what the spirit of baseball meant.
I have a vivid memory of a game where my dad displayed just how thoughtful he was. It was scorching hot outside at Donelson Rotary baseball park. “Stay hydrated” was every baseball mom’s catch phrase. It was the last inning and a player with Down Syndrome named Jason on his team did not like to bat. Mike always let him take right field and sit out of batting if he chose to do so. That day, Lusk told Jason he should give it a try. “You may just get a home run,” he told him.
The pitcher of the opposing team knew who Jason was and gave the first and second pitch everything he had. Strike one. Strike Two. The crowd also knew Jason and both sides began to cheer him on. He hit the next pitch directly between third and short, and he ran max speed to second base. To this day, I have never seen a bigger smile on anyone’s face. He began jumping up and down and dancing. At the end of the game, my dad put him up on his shoulders and gave him the game ball as everyone chanted Jason’s name and celebrated a victory.
That baseball park was so positively affected by Lusk’s years of coaching, a sign that has stood for years there reads, “In Memory of Mike Lusk. Husband, Father, & Coach.”
He loved teaching and mentoring no matter the activity. I remember when I was five, he would play a game called “Pretty Pretty Princess.”—cannot make this stuff up. The objective of them game was to wear a full set of fake jewelry. He had no shame in wearing a beaded necklace, clip-on earrings, and crown to match. He also spared no time in teaching me how to play any sport I might be interested in. He was too excited when I decided to play basketball. For a few years, he even coached my team. You’d think I get to be point guard, but no, I had to play post because he couldn’t not utilize my height advantage. He never showed favoritism.
Mike’s sister, Angie Bolen, told me about the rare event when my brother, Cameron, finally earned the game ball after playing after a particular good performance. “In April before he passed, I went to visit them in Tennessee one weekend,” she says. “Mike was coaching ball and Cameron was on his team. I got to the game and I remember Cameron was at bat and had an awesome hit and played so great that day. I remember him looking around saying ‘Where’s Aunt Angie? Did she see my hit?’ He saw me and I smiled and said, ‘Yes I did! It was awesome!!’ He was so proud. At the end of the game, it was time for Mike to give out the game ball to the player who he thought deserved it, and it was Cameron. I was so thrilled to be there that day.
“Mike told me that he always was fair when he gave this ball out, and it wasn’t given to Cameron because he was his son or because I was there that day watching. It was because he was the all-star in that game and deserved the game ball. It was such a great day. I took pictures of it with Cameron holding that game ball and all of them together in their matching shirts. They are definitely my favorite pictures that I’ve taken because the story that’s behind the pictures make it so special to me.”
Mike Lusk was taken from us too soon. My theory is that heaven just couldn’t wait to meet him.
I was 10 years old watching my 13-year-old brother play video games when my mom called us from downstairs to get ready to leave. I came downstairs and see my mother frantic and stressed while my dad had a slight grin on his face as he nonchalantly got ready to go to the hospital. We checked him in and I hugged my dad for last time. I told him I loved him, but I expected to see again soon. My brother and I waited in the hospital for hours until my mom asked my grandma to take us home for some sleep.
I woke up to my grandma telling Cameron and me to get dressed and ready to go back to the hospital. Once we got there, they escorted us to the worst room in the building, the one room you don’t ever want to be led to—the silent room. We waited for what felt like days until a doctor came in, closed the door quietly, and sat down gently. “Mike is no longer with us…”
I don’t remember much after that. Everything went quiet and the first sound to break the silence was a soft cry and my brother asking, “Who’s going to take us to school, mom?” “I will,” my grandma interjected. “See? We already have a plan,” my mother assured him through tears. The remaining Lusk family began to attempt to fathom what just happened. He was only 43. He was so healthy. How does someone die of a heart attack when they are the strongest and healthiest person you know? My first thought was, “At least he is in a better place. He’s having a way better time than us.”
The day of his funeral, I learned more about my dad than I knew about him when he was alive. There were around 3000 people there waiting to give my family condolences and honor his memory. I got tired of being hugged by strangers so I decided to see the extent of visitors. Down the hallway of a mega-sized church, out the front door in the parking lot were thousands of people waiting to come inside. Many were kids he coached. Some were grown up and still remember the positive affect my dad had on them.
All were devastated.
I still have vivid dreams that I answer the door and he’s standing in front of me, smiling his contagious smile like nothing ever happened. At first these dreams drove me crazy, but I talked about it with my brother, who had similar dreams. He told me, “Dreams sometimes show you what you want. It sucks to wake up, but at least you have that small time of feeling like he’s there beside you.”
The truth is, I always feel like he’s still here with me, and technically his is—in my DNA. I remember the lessons he taught me about strength and determination. As I grow older, I am beginning to understand there is a reason for everything. It all depends on how you think about it. I try harder when I feel I have no energy left because I know that would make him proud. I call my mother every day and am best friends with my brother because dad didn’t want to “play referee” when we fought. His life is still so precious to so many people. His death gave my family an unfortunate, but useful reminder—we are never promised tomorrow.
I have learned to show those I care about how much I love them and to always be fair, strong, loving and humble. His humility still amazes me. I never knew how big of a baseball star he was because he never bragged. All I knew was that his nickname was “Pines” which was on his license plate for as long as I can remember. No, not because he would hit the ball over the fence and into the pine trees, but because opposing players would hit his pitches into the pines.
This says it all. My dad was a baseball angel, which is why I am determined to live my life in a way that would make him proud. I can only hope I affect half as many people as he did. If the ghost of Christmas future were to have brought him forward in time to see the attendance at his funeral, my dad probably would have shrugged and said, “I must be doing something right.”
Rest in peace Mike Lusk. You will always be my hero.