My life is like an at-bat with
one-out in the bottom of the ninth in a championship game. My team is down by a
run with chances at ultimate victory slipping quickly from our grasp. I come up
to the plate, but I’m facing the most intimidating pitcher in the game. His
fastball blazes in with incredible speed and unerring accuracy. His curveball
drops with terrifying and humiliating deception. The crowd filling the stadium
around me waits with uneasy anticipation, fearing even to hope that my meager
abilities are a match for this buzz-saw force, at whose feet countless of his
enemy batters had fallen. I dig into the batter’s box, blurring the marks that
outline the rules for this encounter, knowing I need every possible benefit of
the doubt to have the chance. Before I know it, the first pitch pounds the
catcher’s mitt, a strike. The umpire marks me down for the first sign of my
impending failure, the count against me now indicating that all my strengths,
talents and abilities will not be enough to survive this battle.
I try to remember every piece of
advice I’ve been given. I draw on every ounce of heart and courage I’ve
acquired. I let the love of the fans, my teammates, my wife Chelsea and my
family give me a confidence I don’t really feel inside. WHAP! Strike two. I
stand virtually condemned. My eyes have failed me. I’d seen that pitch as high
and my perception is clearly off. The umpire has no mercy, nor do I deserve
any. If I fail to swing, I deserve to be sent below, to the dugout, unable to
achieve victory by my own strength. I make up my mind that I will swing on this
next pitch, I’m not going to go down without a fight. As the unstoppable force
opposing me delivers his next pitch, I prepare to deliver all my force to
punish the ball, only to realize that it’s a hard curveball thrown too far
inside. I quickly try to check my swing, to undo what I have done, as the ball
bears in on my hands. Pain shouts in my brain as the ball glances off my hand,
and immediately the catcher appeals to the first base umpire, shouting, “He swung!”
I bow my head, knowing that I had certainly swung and canceled out my chance to
reach base through a hit-by-pitch. I glance up to see confirmation of my
defeat, only to see the first-base umpire’s “Safe!” signal. Somehow, I was
going to first, not of my own merit, but because of the grace of an
unexpectedly lax law-keeper, giving me and my team undeserved life. The
protests of the catcher and the buzz-saw on the mound are to no avail. The
authority of mercy trumps all, and I find myself on first base, still with a
chance to find my way home.
The batter after me is the driving
force of our team, Clete “the Ghost” Haggio. The Ghost is the driving force of
our team. He encourages everyone, he’s always willing to give advice or share
resources. Amazingly, he has been my teammate since Little League, drafted the
same time as me to the same team, and has accompanied me all the way during my
climb through the minors. The Ghost has always been cheering for me and
strengthening me when I doubted myself. I know exactly what he will do and as
soon as the pitcher delivers, I break for second base. The Ghost’s
perfectly-placed bunt leaves the third-baseman no choice but to throw to first
as I slide safely into scoring position. The Ghost’s incredible speed is not quite
enough this time; the third-baseman makes an amazing play to get him. My
friend, constant counselor, my encourager has submitted himself for the good of
the team to give us hope.
The pitcher growls as he receives a
new ball. While frustrated, he is confident in his ability to overcome these
unforeseen developments. With two outs, our chances are still slim, our doom
still imminent. As Joshua Christo steps to the plate, I give him a quick
salute. Born to immigrant parents in Bethlehem, Pennyslvania, Josh was
discovered as a late bloomer while playing his senior year at Nazareth College, and he worked steadily in the
minor league system for a while, developing as a catcher known for his adept handling of
pitchers and umpires. He has always seemed
far more interested in the success of his teammates than his own, constantly pointing to our value, perpetually reminding us of the victory possible for us
together with him leading our club. The only hope we have now is that Josh will
intervene. I take my lead from second, doing everything in my power to put
myself in a position to let Josh pull through. The pitcher wastes no time in
delivering a 100-mph heater for a strike. Then, the second pitch, a curveball,
hits the dirt, and bounces to the backstop. I break for third and find myself
90 feet from home, through no skill of my own. This game has brought me to within a few steps of unimaginable joy, yet I cannot do anything now to get to the
Promised Land. I watch as Josh swings over a curveball for strike two.
Now, I am resigned to our fate.
Even if I scored, we wouldn’t win the game, just tie and hope for a miraculous
win in extra innings. The best that luck, talent, education and the rules could
get me was a tie, a postponement of eventual defeat. My hopes rested entirely
on the shoulders of Josh – Josh who was only on this team because he cared so
much about us. He had gathered national attention for donating his entire
salary to local homeless shelters and migrant communities. And, yet, all that goodness would not
provide him any advantage against this closer of doom on the mound. I held my breath
for the final pitch. Joshua Christo swung and connected. The ball flew out
towards the fence, and delirious happiness began to break like a sunrise across
my mind. From as good as dead in a two-strike count to victorious life, Josh
had hammered that pitch into the seats, a two-run shot to win the game and
bring me safely home.
No comments:
Post a Comment