to guide, support, and encourage these young athletic hearts.
For Nigel, the four-foot difference between a fair ball and the foul he hit was the beginning of a huge life lesson we faced together. As he trotted back to take his second swing, I could see him rubbing his hands in pain. The grimace on his face confirmed my suspicions. He picked up the bat and stared at the pitcher while working the handle with his bare hands. Nigel’s downward spin began with the next ball.
The pitcher took his stance, nodded to the catcher, and threw a hard fastball. It got away from him and hit Nigel squarely in the shoulder as he tried to lean back to avoid it. The umpire stopped the game for a moment to make sure my son was not hurt. Nigel waved his coach off and began a slow run to first base, rubbing his shoulder the whole time. His foot speed got him over to third base, but the inning ended before he could score. Once again, he was just sixty feet from some form of success.
His next time at bat brought a totally different kid to the plate. He stood at the back of the batter’s box in an almost upright stance. His aggressive attitude was gone, and, although he was going to try to make contact, his body language expressed equal concern for being hit by the ball. He did take one swing during the three strikes that went by, and with it I noticed something strange.
Did he actually drop the bat below the ball to avoid the hit?
I would watch more closely the next time he was up.
His final batting chance came in the last inning. It was a tough situation. We were down by one run with two outs and a man on second base. A good hit might advance the runner and tie the game; but a strikeout would create a loss. When Nigel approached the plate, time slowed down while I watched the son I love, enter the lion’s den. Suddenly, he appeared very young compared to the surrounding athletes.
Had I made a big mistake? Maybe I should have said, “No,” to his request of playing with an older team. As parents, even though we try to make the best decisions concerning our children, we sometimes strike out. I felt that this was one of those occasions.
Nigel stared at the first strike as it came by, but he was ready for the second one. When he swung at the next pitch, something extraordinary occurred. From my angle, I could actually see the bat in line with the ball, then at the last moment, he dropped his hands to avoid the hit!
“Strike two!” the umpire yelled.
The third pitch was a ball, but the final pitch of the game was an exact replica of the second strike. Nigel’s swinging bat, initially aimed at a base hit, was purposely lowered to avoid contact. The other team cheered with success, and their fans clapped in support of the win.
Our boys began to clear the dugout, and Nigel walked back to the bench while never looking up. Eric was the first to greet him with a pat on the back and words of encouragement
“You’ll get it next time, Nigel. Don’t worry about it.”
There was a reason these boys were best friends.
The ride home was quiet. Nigel and I didn’t talk about the game until we were parked in the driveway. After he gathered his gear from the back of the truck, I picked him up to sit on the tailgate so we could be at the same level. His eyes expressed the pain he harbored in his soul.
“Listen to me, Buddy. Your dad thinks you are the greatest kid in the world, and I love you more than you can imagine. This is just a game. Winning is fun but there is a lot more to sports than the final score. I know you are discouraged, and we have a bit of homework to do in order to beat this, but together we can accomplish anything! You just have to believe me.”
Somehow those words sounded very familiar.
His beautiful brown eyes stared into mine with hope and trust that what his father was saying could be true.
“Okay, Dad,” he replied with the faith of a child.
“Great! We will start tomorrow.”
He reached out to give me a big hug. We held each other long enough for much of the hurt to vanish into overshadowing love.
“Now…let’s go have some ice cream!”
I picked him up by his legs, flipped him over and carried him into the house hanging upside down while he laughed the whole time. When we got into the kitchen, Hans burst into the room.
“Nigel, come see what I built!” He expressed excitement at the fact that his brother was home. “Did you win your game?”
I interrupted, “Not this time, Hansy boy, but it’s a long season, and Nigel made a great play at second base.”
Nigel looked at me, then to his mother, as he mentally returned to his failure at bat. He picked up his gear bag and began the slow walk toward his bedroom. I gently rubbed his back trying to soften the pain from the emotional burden he carried.
“Hey man, let’s go see what your brother made.”
Stepping though the door, we were greeted with a room overrun by the Lego adventure Hans had created. It occupied the entire area between their beds. Although these small plastic pieces were the dominant features, many toy figures and heroes had been recruited to fill the scene. Nigel threw his bag to the side and they both stretched themselves out on their beds overlooking the battlefield. Hans explained the ensuing galactic struggle spread out before us. Eventually, baseball was forgotten, replaced by Wookies, Storm Troopers and Jedi Knights.
After a hot-dog lunch, the boys went to take their afternoon nap. I joined Mary Lynn with kitchen clean-up.
“How was the birthday party?” I asked as I placed a pot in the dishwasher.
“Hans had fun. We went to that trampoline place and all the kids bounced around having a wonderful time,” Mary Lynn explained and handed me more silverware to put in the machine’s plastic bin. “I was so sorry I could not be there for Nigel’s first game this year. How did it go?”
I stopped working for a moment to recall the events.
“Nigel made a great play at second base to end the first inning, but he struggled with batting,” I replied with a mildly serious tone.
She looked at me and said, “I thought he hit well in practice with the team last week?”
“He did, but some of these boys are almost two years older than Nigel; and remember, this year it’s kid-pitch not machine-pitch.”
Mary Lynn nodded in acknowledgment.
“Did he get a hit?” Her eyes were hoping for the right answer.
“He made great contact on the very first pitch, but it ended up in foul territory. It was pretty much downhill from there. Unfortunately, he made the last out of the game when we had a chance to tie.”
I could see the painful expression of compassion on my wife’s face as she considered Nigel’s failure.
“I may have made a mistake by letting him play at this level, Babe.”
Mary Lynn gently patted me on the shoulder, gave me a kiss, and quietly reminded me, “You never know what blessings God has in store, Daddy.”
She was right, and I did have a few ideas on how Nigel and I could attack this new problem. I glanced at my watch as we finished the dishes. It was almost one o’clock and perfect timing for an afternoon with my engine builder. Together, we should be able to get a lot of work done on the second motor. When I pulled into Joshua’s driveway, his uncanny appearance at the side garage door and ensuing wave for me to come join him, had almost become routine. I gathered my things and headed down the path to his shop. The majestic trees lining the walkway provided shade to his front yard and memories of my mother’s love for their splendor. With each unconscious step, I wondered what spiritual lesson he had in store for me today. I could never have imagined the challenge he was about to unfold.
CHAPTER 2
The