Bob was caught up in the spirit where he and the Lord
stood by to observe a baseball game. The Lord's team was
playing Satan's team.
The Lord's team was at bat, the score was tied zero to
zero, and it was the bottom of the 9th inning with two outs.
They continued to watch as a batter stepped up to the plate
whose name was Love. Love swung at the first pitch and hit a
single, because Love never fails.
The next batter was named Faith, who also got a single
because Faith works with Love.
The next batter up was named Godly wisdom. Satan wound up
and threw the first pitch; Godly Wisdom looked it over and let
it pass, because Godly Wisdom does not swing at
Satan's
pitches. Ball one. Three more pitches and Godly Wisdom walked,
because Godly wisdom never swings at Satan's throws.
The bases were loaded. The Lord then turned to Bob and
told him He was now going to bring in His star player. Up to
the plate stepped Grace. Bob said he sure did not look like
much! Satan's whole team relaxed when they saw Grace.
Thinking he had won the game, Satan wound up and fired his
first pitch. To the shock of everyone, Grace hit the ball
harder than anyone had ever seen. But Satan was not worried;
his center fielder, the Prince of the air, let very few get
by. He went up for the ball, but it went right through his
glove, hit him on the head and sent him crashing on the
ground; then it continued over the fence for a home run! The
Lord's team won.
The Lord then asked Bob if he knew why Love, Faith, and
Godly Wisdom could get on base but could not win the game.
Bob answered that he did not know why.
The Lord explained, "If your love, faith and wisdom had
won the game you would think you had done it by yourself.
Love, faith and wisdom will get you on base, but only My grace
can get you home.
listened to baseball games on the radio. I watched them on TV.
The books I read were about baseball. I took baseball cards to
church in hopes of trading with other baseball card junkies.
My fantasies? All about baseball.
I played baseball whenever and wherever I could. I played
organized or sandlot. I played catch with my brother, with my
father, with friends. If all else failed, I bounced a rubber
ball off the porch stairs, imagining all kinds of wonderful
things happening to me and my team. With this attitude, I
entered the 1956 Little League season.
I was a shortstop. Not good, not bad, Just addicted.
Gordon was not addicted. Nor was he good. He moved into our
neighborhood that year and signed up to play baseball. The
kindest way to describe Gordon’s baseball skills is to say
that he didn’t have any. He couldn’t catch. He couldn’t hit.
He couldn’t throw. He couldn’t run. In fact, Gordon was afraid
of the ball.
I was relieved when the final selections were made and
Gordon was assigned to another team. Everyone had to play at
least half of each game, and I couldn’t see Gordon improving
my team’s chances in any way. Too bad for the other team.
After two weeks of practice, Gordon dropped out. My friends
on his team laughed when they told me how their coach
directed two of the team’s better players to walk Gordon into
the woods and have a chat with him. “Get lost” was the message
they delivered, and “get lost” was the message that was heard.
Gordon got lost.
That scenario violated my 11-year-old sense of justice, so I
did what any indignant shortstop would do. I tattled. I told
my coach the whole story. I shared the episode in full detail,
figuring my coach would complain to the league office and
have Gordon returned to his original team. Justice and my
team’s chances of winning would be served.
I was wrong. My coach decided that Gordon needed to be on a
team that wanted him - one that treated him with respect, one
that gave everyone a fair chance to contribute according to
his own ability.
Gordon joined our team. I wish I could say Gordon got the big
hit in the big game with two outs in the final inning. It
didn’t happen. I don’t think Gordon even hit a foul ball the
entire season. Baseballs hit in his direction (right field)
went over him, by him, through him or off him.
It wasn’t that Gordon didn’t get help. The coach gave him
extra batting practice and worked with him on his fielding,
all without much improvement.
I’m not sure if Gordon learned anything from my coach that
year. I know I did. I learned to bunt without tipping off my
intention. I learned to tag up on a fly if there were less
than two outs. I learned to make a smoother pivot around
second base on a double play.
I learned a lot from my coach that summer, but my most
important lessons weren’t about baseball. They were about
character and integrity. I learned that everyone has worth,
whether they can hit .300 or .030. I learned that we all have
value, whether we can stop the ball or have to turn and chase
it.I learned that doing what is right, fair and honorable is
more important than winning or losing. It felt good to be on
that team that year. I’m grateful that man was my coach. I was
proud to be his shortstop and his son.
By Chick Moorman