MY GREATEST MOMENT IN SPORTS WINSDAY WISDOM

SESSION 20

The highlight of my athletic life happened when I was twelve years old. That moment sums up the Wikipedia account of sports stardom for this writer. I peaked in the first dozen years. No wonder my dad was saddened when the Highway Department placed the warning sign beside our family yard: Beware, Slow Children Playing. Apparently, the yellow caution sign became a necessity after the birth of my two younger brothers.

Why was this moment so important? That can be answered only through the perspective of a twelve-year-old boy who loved sports because his hero dad was a high school coach. I hope you will see what I saw, feel what I felt, and learn what I learned that unforgettable night.

Like many dads, mine taught me the game of baseball. He bought me my first glove and trained me to use two hands to cradle catch fly balls and to crouch for the hard-hit grounders.

Dad coached a twelve-year-old baseball team when I was seven. He gave me a uniform and inserted me into right field for the last inning of games when our team was far ahead. Of course, I thought I should be playing more. At one pre-game dinner, I asked Dad to stop treating me as though I was his son. That night, I sat on the bench for the entire game. One lesson learned.

When I was twelve, our family spent the summer in Stillwater, Oklahoma, where my dad was in the university summer school classes to earn his Masters’ Degree. Dad signed me up for Little League baseball. I played second base for a team who welcomed this outsider onto its homegrown roster.

It was a fun Sandlot type of summer. Our team had good players and coaches. We won every contest. My parents found a way to attend every game, even with Dad’s heavy load of schoolwork. They cheered loudly for the team and especially for me.

I repeat, Dad was my hero. The post-game stops for a milkshake or ice-cold root beer were memorable celebrations of victories and our relationship.

The successful season culminated with our team playing in the area championship finals. A trip to the national championship in Williamsport was the prize to the winners. It was the last inning and our team led by one run. Three outs from victory and more weeks of summer baseball.

However, we had to change pitchers. Our best pitcher had maxed out the limit of pitches allowed by the Little League rules. The change in pitchers was normally not a problem for our team, but tonight would prove differently. Why? Our second best, equally dominant pitcher, was sidelined with the mumps.

Our third pitcher was on family vacation in Colorado. Who goes on vacation on the weekend of the season’s most important game? What parent does that? This is the championship game! Get your priorities straight!

Our coach called in our first baseman to pitch. Mark was tall and lanky for twelve. He also was wild with his pitches. Eight throws, eight balls, two men walked on base. The tying run was on second base, and the potential winning run for our opponent stood on first base.

The coach walked to the pitcher’s mound, took the ball from Mark, patted him on the back, then pointed at me standing near second base. I looked around like a kid caught stealing cookies. It must be someone else! No, the coach signaled for me to come pitch.

I had never pitched, not in a real game. I sometimes pitched in batting practice because I could throw the ball over the plate in the strike zone, but slow enough for everyone to hit it. That is why it is called batting practice, not pitching practice.

The coach handed me the ball and told me not to walk anyone as Mark had just done. He said to take a deep breath and remember that the whole season is on the line.

Thank you, coach, for piling all the weight of a pressure-packed moment onto a twelve-year-old kid. “Go big or go home!” The Coach seriously underestimated my desire to go home.

I looked at the opposing team’s batter, then at the tying baserunner on second and the winning baserunner on first. I was nervous! I could not breathe!

The first pitch went right over the plate. Unfortunately, it also flew over the catcher’s head and the umpire’s head before landing against the backstop. Now, the tying run was at third base and the winning run was standing on second base.

As the catcher tossed the ball back to me, he shouted his seasoned advice, “You’re killin’ me, Smalls.”

I heard someone could be so nervous his knees would knock together. Mine shook so violently they were missing each other.

What happened next could be described as a miracle. The batter wildly swung at my next three pitches and struck out.

This was not “The Colossus of Clout” or “Mighty Casey” who struck out. This was possibly the worst Little Leaguer in the history of baseball. I cringe at the possibility he might read this account of his infamous moment. I do not understand why he swung at those pitches and neither did his coach.

One out! My teammates shouted encouragements to steady me. The opponents yelled insults to rattle me. Coaches and parents screamed at their counterparts on the other team.

The next batter popped up my first pitch to him. I caught it and now there were two outs! Maybe, I should have been pitching all summer. We were one out away from winning the championship, and I would be the star relief pitcher.

Maybe next year would propel this rookie hurler to the Big Leagues to win the Cy Young Award for best pitcher, then on to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.

“There are heroes and there are legends; heroes get remembered, but legends never die.”

This was my iconic High Noon showdown at Tombstone, taking place at night in a ballpark. I planned for my pitch to be faster than the opposing player’s swing. I would mow down the bad guy, toss my glove in the dirt, and ride off into the night with my girl, whom I simply called Mom.

I stepped on the mound ready to end this game. I was like ice in a cool breeze. I looked at the potential tying run at third base, then glanced at the winning runner standing on second.

I glared at the opponent stepping into the batter’s box. He rearranged his batting gloves, pounded his bat on home plate, then got into his hitting stance.

Our eyes met. It was a stare-down standoff. The suspense heightened. My body tensed with every labored breath. I waited for the batter to blink first. The haunting theme music from “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” played over the loudspeakers in my head.

The two-note “wah-wah-wah…who-who-who” classic melody sounds similar to the howl of a coyote. It is definitely one of the coolest, most iconic soundtracks in movie history.

The music was suddenly halted by the umpire’s scream, asking if I were going to throw the ball or just stand there all night. I think he even called me Karen.

The next pitch would be the last one of this game. The excitement and tension were at their highest levels. These are the moments that define the Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat.

I went through my wind-up and heaved the ball to home plate. The batter swung and hit a short, soft blooper in the direction of first base. It was an easy out.

Next came the leaps into the air, the shouts at the top of the lungs, and gloves thrown high into the air, followed by the traditional dog pile.

Wake up! My head turned to watch our first baseman catch the ball, but Mark stood uninvolved and unmoved, still in shock from his ill-fated pitching experience. I reacted instinctively as I ran toward the basepath with my eyes on the descending ball.

I stretched out my arm and the ball plopped softly into my glove. We were one second away from the championship when suddenly, our substitute second baseman crashed into me, knocking both of us down.

The ball fell to the ground and rolled across the white chalked line towards the dugout fence. I looked up from my prone position to see the tying run cross home plate and the winning runner racing around third base headed for home.

I scrambled to my knees and quickly crawled through the dirt to retrieve the errant baseball. I popped up on my knees and threw the runner out at home. That is exactly what happened…in my mind, but not in reality. As my arm went into its throwing motion, the baseball slipped out of my hands and softly fell to the ground behind me.

Anyone who has ever played or watched a youth baseball or softball game understands what happened next as the emotional rollercoaster turns from ecstatic happiness to total heartbreak. One team is jumping, hugging, shouting, tossing gloves and caps into the air, and celebrating the championship victory.

The other team mourns the loss. Some players slump to the ground; some angrily throw their gloves and caps. Some cry. I did all those things. Championship defeats hurt badly, whatever the sport, whatever the age.

My team lost, and I was the reason. Everyone knew whose son cost our team the championship. My hustling teammate did not cause me to drop the easy pop-up. The baseball had already bounced out of my glove before the collision.

I attempted a sweet one-handed grab instead of the safer two-handed style taught by my dad. I dropped the ball a second time with my attempted throw to our catcher. I was crushed beyond belief. Devastated.

The distance between the joy of victory and the depression of defeat is one very small step. The time between dancing on the mountaintop to crying in the valley is measured in seconds. There was no joy in Mudville that day. My world had ended.

Aristotle wrote about the metaphor, catharsis–the process of releasing emotions in the face of true tragedy. He described it as both helpful and healthful to the heart. Aristotle never played Little League baseball.

Cathartic? How is this supposed to be good for the heart? This little kid was heartbroken. I sat motionless on the bench with my cap pulled down to hide my tear-filled eyes. Sad thoughts raced through my mind.

This is not how the movie was supposed to end. Gary Cooper’s Marshal Kane does not get shot by a faster gun at High Noon.

What group of Aristotelian screenwriters thought it would be cathartic for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to be gunned down by hundreds of Bolivian soldiers? Or Toy Story 3 to end with grown-up kid Andy sharing a final farewell with Sheriff Woody, Buzz Lightyear, and the other toy friends before he goes off to college? Who in their right mind would want to end a movie like that? People would bawl their eyes out.

(I still think there needs to be a special font for sarcasm!)

What about Rhett Butler leaving Scarlett in Gone with the Wind? Well, frankly my dear, I do not get that. 

What helpful emotional benefit is there to shooting Old Yeller?

What television producer decided it would be good therapeutic theatre for the Mets to win the World Series and rip out the heart of every Red Sox fan as they watch the slowly hit baseball roll right through the legs of Bill Buckner?

What’s next? No more milk shakes? Who in their right mind would think that it might be healthy for the heart to give up ice cream and doughnuts?

Catharsis? I was releasing emotions. It was neither helpful nor healthful. Forget you, Aristotle. I dropped the baseball.

The Agony of Defeat. I can still taste the dust. Seriously, my mouth is dusty dry even now. I cringe at the thought of that baseball slipping out of my hand.

I vividly remember the sight of the opposing team’s runner joyfully jumping onto home plate. I still feel the sadness and darkness deep down in my memory bank.

The coach sat us all down in the dugout and talked about what a great season it had been. He encouraged us all to get better so we could win the championship next year. Well, I would not be back next year because I did not live in this town; besides, my teammates would not want me back on their team. No one would be calling, “Shane! Come back!”

When the consolation talk finished, the distraught players slowly exited the bench area, while the coaches bagged the equipment.

I sat there in silence. Heartbroken. Tears still streaming down my cheeks. I bit my lip and pondered an exit strategy. The coach literally helped me to my feet, guided me out of the dugout, and patted me on the back as we left the ballfield.

In that moment, I decided to run away. I could not face my disappointed dad. I could not answer why I dropped the ball while acting like some showboat star player.

So, my solution was to run away. I did not know where. I did not know for how long, but anywhere would be better than my present option.

I stood there at the edge of the ballpark, head bowed, shoulders slumped, with my cap pushed down to cover my eyes. The stadium lights were turned off causing the surrounding area to darken. The gravel parking lot lay ahead and the tree-lined park behind. This was the crossroads of my twelve-year-old sporting career.

Would I run? What direction?

I raised my head slightly, just to see our family car in the parking lot. I saw two feet standing next to it, obviously belonging to my father. I did not want to hear a parental lecture on how to properly catch a pop-up fly ball. I certainly did not want to look into my dad’s disappointed eyes, but I did want to see him one last time before I ran away in the opposite direction.

What I saw in that moment brings me to tears even now. It shaped my life…forever. Not just as an athlete, but as a son, as a father, as a grandfather, and as a man seeking to influence and impact the lives of other sons and fathers.

I looked up with those moistened eyes and trembling lips to see my dad standing by the car. He was looking at me. He was waiting for me…with his arms opened wide.

This twelve-year-old boy ran across the gravel parking lot as fast as he could go, jumped into his dad’s arms, and sobbed uncontrollably. I can still feel those huge forearms wrapped around me in a big bear hug.

Finally, I mumbled how sorry I was for dropping the ball. What I saw and felt in that moment were superseded by what I heard.

“That’s OK, Son. I still love you! Let’s go home!”

Never have I heard words which impacted me more. I understood in that moment words which would carry me through the rest of my life. Words that would teach me about my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Words that would shape me as a father to my kids. 

It’s OK! I still love you! Let’s go home!

• God’s love always comforts; it never condemns.
• God’s love always continues; it never ceases.
• God’s love always takes us home; it never closes the door.

No matter how I mess up in life, intentionally or unintentionally, I am still loved. No matter how often or how far I try to run in the wrong direction, I still have a home.

I AM IN AWE OF HOW AND WHY GOD LOVES ME.                                                                    I am thankful to a dad who taught and demonstrated that love to me.

What is your biggest mistake or disappointment in life? Where did you drop the ball? What hurt, fear, worry, guilt, or loss has you weighed down under its heavy burden? What causes you to want to run away from God and others?

God is always with you. God is always for you. Whatever the mess, God never loves you less. 

GOD NEVER LOVES YOU LESS!

One of my favorite verses declares our Heavenly Father’s wonderful promise: God is over you, beside you, in you, around you, and underneath you. (#1 Textbook)

God has you covered in His love. God’s loving arms remain wide open. You never face a game or a challenge or a crisis alone. You never go through difficulty and suffering alone. You never experience trials, troubles, and tribulations alone.

God’s infinite love is wider, longer, higher, and deeper than you can ever imagine.

Whenever I drop the ball in loving others, I run into the loving arms of my Heavenly Father. My prayer is that you will join me. It will change your life forever.

NO MATTER WHAT SEEMS TO GO WRONG IN YOUR LIFE, YOUR HEAVENLY FATHER NEVER, NEVER, NEVER LOVES YOU LESS.

Please allow me to speak directly to your heart. “It’s OK. I still love you. Let’s go home.”

Love first. Love most.

What should you do now? Love first and love most, with more joy. (next session)