Back in the 1960s and 70s, there were few tighter Westport Little League teams than the Braves.

They didn’t always win, though they took home at least two league championships and challenged for a state title one year. And while many of the players’ faces changed from year to year, the one constant was Coach Tom Hancock.

Forever sporting a crewcut that he still has at 90, Hancock coached little league from 1959 into the ‘80s. Over his many years in the dugout, his players say he never got angry, led calmly and confidently, and ended up teaching his kids a lot more than just how to play the game the right way.

“Out of all my mentors and leaders in life, he was better than all of them,” said Doug Amaral, who owns several restaurants in the Punta Gorda area of Florida.

Many of them hadn’t seen Coach Hancock in 40 years or more. But on Saturday afternoon, Amaral and nine of his old friends and former teammates met at the American Legion Hall on Sanford Road, just across from Tom and Beverly Hancock’s modest ranch house on D Drive. They took off their shirts, put on fresh new Braves T-shirts with their names on the back, and grabbed new hats made for the day. Each had an ‘H’ on the front — “Today, we’re Team Hancock,” Amaral said.

At 3:30 p.m., they walked across the street together to surprise their old coach.

Measure of a coach

Saturday’s drop-in was inspired by Amaral, who first met Hancock as an insecure nine-year-old boy who hadn’t yet played ball, though he desperately wanted to. But he lacked confidence, and remembers clear as day telling his mother exactly why he couldn’t cross the fence and put on a uniform.

“I was terrified,” Amaral said.

But on their first meeting, “Coach Hancock quietly convinced me just to try, and I did.”

“The rest of my life, I’ve been trying because of him.”

Amaral recently heard from Hancock’s daughter, Deby (Hancock) Smith, that he doesn’t get out much anymore, and that “you may want to go visit your old coach.”

So he got on the phone and computer and spread the word:

“How about coming up to Westport to tell him how much he meant?” Amaral asked his former mates.

It didn’t take much convincing.

Matt Bernier, now a professional musician in Naples, Fl., said yes. So did Gus Cariglia, Mike Emond and Dale Frederick of Westport, Steve Mercier and Bryce Getchel of Dartmouth, Ron Silva, who lives in Potomac, Md. and just got out of military service in Germany, his younger brother Andrew of Bridgewater, and Barry Alves of Rehoboth. Smith, who also lives near Amaral in Florida, came up for the visit as well.

Recent weeks have been like “walking on egg shells,” Smith said — she’s been worried that her dad would catch wind of the plan and the surprise would be ruined. But no one let it leak and she said that was a huge relief — if anyone deserves such an honor it’s him, she said.

“He’s a good man,” Smith said of her dad, who like wife Beverly can trace his family roots back to Westport’s earliest days. “He’s always been good to his family — we are blessed to have him.”

Her dad still lives and breathes baseball, and after his coaching days, when his kids were grown, vacations were often scheduled around Red Sox spring training games in Winter Haven, Fl. In those days, Spring ball was less regulated and restricted than it is now, and Hancock developed relationships with many Red Sox players over the years. Deby and her husband moved to Florida in 1989, and she remembers watching Spring ball with her parents many times.

“He used to say that the Boston Red Sox couldn’t start their season unless he was there.”

Out on the field as a coach, he was strict, firm and fair, she remembers. His calm demeanor instilled confidence and he always had his players’ backs. And though he taught his kids that winning wasn’t everything, it clearly motivated him, she said:

“He used to walk around home plate at the beginning of every game and he would find these itty bitty rocks,” she remembers. “He’d pick up eight or 10 of them — they were his worry rocks — and he’d dribble them from one hand to the next during the game.”

What will his reaction be when he sees all his old players? she was asked a few days before the surprise.

“As my father has aged, he’s still a very strong personality,” she said. “But anything emotional, and he’s still very marshmallow fluff.”

Thanks, coach

So a few minutes before 3:30 p.m., the players checked Sanford for traffic and walked across the street, turning right when they got to the other side. A quick left turn on D Drive brought them to the Hancock home, two houses down on the left. They walked up the driveway and stopped in front of the small deck by the side door, where Beverly, who was in on the surprise, had rused her husband out for a “sit.”

As they reached the end of the driveway, the players turned their backs on Hancock so he could see the last names on their T-shirts. Then they turned around, showed their faces and Hancock hats, and the years disappeared.

“Hey coach,” Frederick said. “You taught us not only the game of baseball, but the game of life. We were too young to even know that. But all the little things that happened on the field, they made us the people that we are today. Yeah the winning all counted and the losses, they hurt. But it’s been a wonderful experience and I carry a lot of memories.”

“You were a phenomenal coach,” Cariglia said. “I was always happy to be on the Braves. You were always such an upbeat person and always taught us the fundamentals and good sportsmanship. It was always great to be a part of your team.”

“Besides having the coolest marine high and tight haircut of all time, you taught us how to be graceful winners, but when we lost you taught us it’s not a loss, it’s a challenge to get better,” the elder Silva said. “And I carried that through life. I spent 23 years in the Army, and I carried that throughout my military career — just thinking about some of the discipline and respect that you instilled in us. So I want to thank you for that.”

“It’s great seeing you — it’s been too long.”

As the short visit ended, Bernier grabbed his saxophone, and “God Bless America" rang out across the neighborhood. Everyone sang along.