Unexpected Occasions of Grace. Mike Carotta

England, maybe everyone on the planet knew that with just a few more outs the beloved Sox would have a chance to play in the World Series for the first time in, like, twenty years. History was knocking on the door. Years of local prayers (and lamentations) were about to be answered. Boston’s best pitcher was on the mound. But he was now showing signs of fatigue. Boston’s manager had to make the season’s most important decision: take out his ace pitcher and bring in a reliever or stick with his ace who had been pitching incredibly well all year. The manager sent his assistant coach out to chat with the pitcher. The television broadcasters explained that the manager was in a perilous position.

      Apparently the locals and the media had questioned their manager’s decision-making ability all year long. Rumors had it that they were ready to look for another manager. All this made the present decision even more dramatic.

      If the manager pulled his ace pitcher and the Yankees got a few hits off the reliever, the manager would be seen as an idiot. If the manager stuck with his ace and the Yankees got a hit or two off his tiring star, he would look like an idiot. Of the three possible ways this situation could turn out, two of them could get him fired.

      The TV cameras zoomed inside the dugout and focused on the Boston manager talking things over with the assistant coach, also known as the “bench coach.” The two stared out at the mound. They chatted. They looked out at their pitcher again. They chatted some more. The manager left the pitcher in. And the Yankees scored the winning runs and went on to the World Series.

      After the class ended two days later, I made my way back to the Fireplace for dinner. Boston was a city in mourning. No joke. There were plenty of open chairs next to me that night when the bartender sees a guy walk in and quietly says, “Hi, Coach.” The coach smiles back, hangs his coat on the back of a chair at the bar, and heads to the bathroom. “Be right back,” he says.

      “Whose that?” I whispered to the bartender. “Bench coach for the Red Sox. During the season he rents an apartment up the street. Comes in for dinner when the Sox are in town. Probably coming in tonight before heading back home to South Carolina for the winter.”

      There was an empty seat between Coach and I. It represented the space he needed and deserved. I was determined to respect his space. But I casually asked him three questions, doing my best to be nonchalant.

      I tell this story now because, after several years, his answers are still fresh in my mind. They completely captured the paradox of passionately caring about the work one does with one’s life.

      The answers Coach gave that night are no different than the ones we give regarding our love for our callings — the instincts we develop over time — and the soul searching we do when it is not always going well. His answers mirror the way callings take hold of our hearts.

      Blessing us and burdening us.

      Both.

      The ache and the awe we experience in the work we love, feel called to, live for.

      “Can I ask you a question?”

      “Sure,” he nodded.

      “Go out to the mound to check on your pitcher. You know he’s gonna tell you that he’s fine and can get it done. Right? So what do you do? Why go out there?”

      “Look into his eyes. Listen to the sound of his voice.”

      I smiled and let some silence take back its place between us for a few moments.

      “What was it like two nights ago? Yankee Stadium. National TV. Fans going nuts. Game on the line. Season on the line. World Series waiting for the winner. Stress you out?”

      “No way. It was great. It was incredible. It’s what you live for. It’s what you dream about ever since you were a kid. It was absolutely amazing. Fun!”

      I was totally stunned by his response. Childhood joy.

      Asked him one more question: “Will you think about the game much during the off season?” His response was immediate. He never looked up from his food.

      “Every pitch. Every night.”

      “For me, every hour is grace.

      And I feel gratitude in my heart each time I can meet someone and look at his or her smile.”

      — Elie Wiesel

      5

       Grace passed on in a final message

      “I know what I want read at my funeral,” announced my eighty-five-year-old mother-in-law. Two thoughts raced into my head: she was years away from a funeral, and I was now the guy who was going to have to make good on this deal.

      “Have you told anyone else?” I asked, praying so.

      “No. Actually, yes. I told Matt the other day.”

      She reached toward the coffee table and opened a green book entitled Prayers by Michel Quoist (Sheed and Ward, 1963). It was a gift given to her late husband by one of their daughter’s boyfriends nearly forty years ago. The inscription was dated 1974. Sure enough, her son Matt had attached a yellow Post-it to Page 21.

      Mom read it aloud. The way it came out of her mouth sounded more like a hymn. It filled the room with light and soul. Vivid images flooded into my mind with every word.

      I couldn’t stop them. I didn’t want to.

       The Wire Fence

       The wires are holding hands around the holes:

      To avoid breaking the ring, they hold tight the neighboring wrist,

      And it’s thus that with holes they make a fence.

      Lord, there are lots of holes in my life.

      There are some in the lives of my neighbors.

      But if you wish, we shall hold hands,

      We shall hold very tight,