Baseball is eternal.

That is, in baseball you never run out of time, you never run out of hope, it never leaves you feeling helpless or without a chance to make a final, dramatic difference. Unlike most other sports, where the clock runs out or you run out of holes or frames, baseball defies death: there is always hope, however unrealistic it might be. Tennis and other similar sports share this timeless quality, but they are boring by comparison.

Baseball is the perfect game. What other sport is there where the offense never touches the ball? How cool is that?

It is not surprising that I would use baseball as a metaphor for my own life: I was the son of a baseball player, raised to be a baseball player, and schooled to be a baseball player. My father had been a semi-pro player before shrapnel from WWII slowed his wheels and required 4 1/2 years of his life. Intending to live vicariously through his only son’s abilities, he planned on me being able to finish what he had barely had an opportunity to start.

Once I overcame my crippling birth defect (bilateral club feet, the sight of which prompted my father to crawl inside a bottle for seven or eight years), I seemed to have been inexorably drawn to the diamond. Baseball was easy for me: blessed with good eye-hand coordination, the ability to nail a curve ball, a strong right arm, and a hobbit-like inability to know when I was outmatched, I was able to garner attention and become known as an all-star caliber player. Not major league all-star caliber but an all-star in whatever league I happened to find myself. I could play any position well, hit for power and average, and run the bases skillfully. Whatever physical shortcomings I might have had I made up for with a natural feel for the game.

I might have been able to fulfill my father’s life dreams, but my own life got in the way. That is, my own foolish choices - I fell in “love,” rebelled against my father - squandered away baseball opportunities until I was too old to go back and pick them up. It is one of the regrets of my life, albeit a pretty minor one.

There is another growing regret, however, that is anything but minor to my way of thinking and mirrors the game of baseball. It has to do with ministry, foolish choices, and a lack of opportunities - at least, a lack from my vantage point.

To state my situation within the metaphor of baseball, I don’t know whether I am Crash Davis or Roy Hobbs.

Crash, you will (hopefully) remember was the anti-hero in Bull Durham, that great Kevin Costner vehicle that gave people a glimpse into the psyche - if not the actual experience - of baseball players. Crash had the dubious distinction of holding the record for the most career home runs by a minor league player. That’s like being the best-looking eunuch in charge of the harem: nobody really wants to be in that position.

But that was Crash’s life. He had had his opportunity to play in the Major Leagues - the “show,” as he called it - but hadn’t been quite good enough to stick. So he was sent down, destined to be a useful but disposable player-to-be-named-later. He was good, very good, but not quite good enough.

Crash loved the game; more, he respected the game. And when the time came for him to face the reality of his limitations, he did it. He admitted to himself what he was capable of and what he was not, and committed himself to being in the game in a different capacity. Not the fulfillment of his dreams, perhaps, but an acceptance of what could be instead of a futile quest for what could never be.

Roy Hobbs, however, was another baseball player altogether. In terms of talent, he was everything Crash wanted to be: he was The Natural, the title character of Robert Redford’s fictional movie of baseball. He had all the tools: great defense, great arm, and the ability to hit a baseball exactly where he wanted to. He was A-Rod, Manny, Babe Ruth, Ty Cobb, and Ted Williams rolled into one ideal player.

Roy Hobbs was everything anyone whoever laced ‘em up could dream of being.

Continued below . . .


2 Cor 1.13