Remember the Condors

By Brian Laucks

Special to the Voice

“At the time, it was a championship picture. Today, I realize it captured something much bigger.”

Back in April, while reorganizing our basement, I came across an old photograph. I stopped what I was doing and just looked at it.

There they were – our daughters and their teammates, standing together on a softball field many years ago, wearing the familiar colors of the West Shore Girls Softball League. Every time we look at this picture, our hearts fill with joy and we can’t help but smile. Because this wasn’t just any softball team.

These were the Condors.

And anyone fortunate enough to be around the Condors in those days will remember the man who helped make them so special – their larger-than-life coach and fearless leader, Sal Arminio.

We parents loved watching our daughters play softball. We cheered for the hits, the catches, the close plays and, of course, the victories. But looking back all these years later, I think many of us would agree that one of the real joys of those days was simply watching Coach Sal.

Sal made it fun.

He had a way of making the girls believe in themselves and in one another. He brought enthusiasm, personality and an unmistakable presence to the field. Winning mattered, as it always does when you’re competing, but Sal seemed to understand that something even more important was happening.

These girls were learning about teamwork, friendship, confidence and what it meant to belong to something special.

Our daughters were blessed to have him as their coach.

Sadly, Coach Sal passed away the year before this photograph was taken. His absence left a tremendous void for the Condors and for the families who had come to know and love him.

And then something wonderful happened. The following year, the Condors won the West Shore Championship. I can’t look at this photograph without thinking about Sal.

God works in mysterious ways, and I like to believe that somewhere that day, Coach Sal was watching. Maybe he even had a little something to do with the joy, determination and spirit those girls carried onto that field.

Look closely at the photograph and you can see it – the smiles, the laughter, the arms around one another, the pure happiness of being young and celebrating something together.

At the time, it was a championship picture. Today, I realize it captured something much bigger.

Many years have passed since Sal left us and since that wonderful championship day. Our daughters are grown women now, with lives and journeys of their own. The uniforms have long since been packed away. The softball fields have changed. Time has moved on, as it always does. But some things don’t leave us.

The friendships, the laughter, the parents standing along the fence. The practices and games on warm evenings. The excitement of watching our daughters compete together.

And the memory of a larger-than-life coach who understood that youth sports could be about far more than a final score.

That’s the wonderful thing about an old photograph. You can discover it in a basement decades later, and suddenly everyone is young again.

The girls are back on the field. The parents are cheering. The Condors are together. And Coach Sal is there, too.

Perhaps that’s why this photograph means so much to us.

It reminds us that championships eventually become memories, but the people who touch our lives become part of who we are.

So, to those young girls who wore the Condors uniform, to the parents who stood along those sidelines, and especially to the unforgettable man who helped bring all of us together:

Remember the laughter. Remember the friendships. Remember Coach Sal.

Remember the Condors.