I Only Learned One Thing From Baseball
I have a friend who loves baseball and knows many of the players. He asked me once if I would like to interview some of the players for a radio broadcast we were doing together. Most guys would have jumped at the chance, but I told him that he'd probably better do it himself. You see, I had a bad experience with the game when I was eight years old. After that I never quite recovered what little interest I had in the sport. So my knowledge of baseball could be placed in a catcher's mitt and still leave room left over for an entire team. I was afraid that if I did interview the players I might ask them questions that would reveal to the audience my sad lack of expertise. Questions like, "Tell me, Joe, what's that long wooden stick you guys swing around called?" Or, "So what exactly do you players do to stay busy during the eons of time between hits when nothing is going on?" When I was a little leaguer in the early sixties I happened to be interviewed by a reporter for a local newspaper. When he asked me what my favorite position was I responded, "Batter." He laughed and jotted my answer down on his notepad. I had no idea why my answer was so funny to him, but it did make the paper the next day. You can probably tell that when it comes to baseball, I obviously don't get it. Maybe it all started during that game I "played" in 1961. I was the right fielder (at least I think that's what the position is called) for the Tankers. Our coach (whose name I've buried in the deep, dark recesses of my mind where I store other traumatic memories) wasn't what I would call the most patient guy I had ever met. He was a cigar-chompin', gruff-talkin', baseball-lovin' guy's guy. There wasn't a whole lot to do in right field. So I spent my sentence there in more productive pursuits such as reviewing that morning's Saturday cartoons or fashioning a whistle out of a blade of grass. So when I heard the crack of a bat followed by a small white orb hurling my direction you can imagine my surprise. It bounced a few times (after all, I wasn't about to get near it while it was airborne) and I picked it up. As if it were yesterday, I can still remember standing there with the ball in my hand, watching the runner round the bases, not having a clue what to do with the ball. The other thing I remember was my coach screaming my name. "Robison, Robison...throw the #@%&* ball!!!!" I had no objection to complying with his suggestion. I simply had no idea where to throw it. It occurred to me in that embarrassing moment that I may have missed the lesson on "Where to Throw the Ball." Or, more likely, I was never told. Discouraged, I quit in the middle of the season never to return to little league. Maybe there is a simple lesson to be learned here for all of us who are trying to raise our kids. We spend a lot of time telling our kids what to do and what not to do, i.e. "how to throw the ball." In other words, the fundamentals of the game of life. But we sometimes forget to take the extra time to patiently teach them the "why" behind the do or don't. That's the strategic side of the game. Where to throw the ball is just as important as how to throw it. If I tell my young son that taking drugs is wrong, he may comply because he respects and loves me. But one of these days when someone offers him an illegal drug he may ask himself, in a weak moment, "why not?" If I as a parent have instilled in him not only the fundamentals of the game of resisting illegal drugs (the "don'ts) but also the strategies as well (the "why nots") he'll be prepared. He may or may not choose to "throw the ball" in the right direction. I pray he will. But he will be equipped with the skills to make the right decision. So when attempting to instill in your children or grandchildren God's values don't leave them with half a lesson by merely telling them right from wrong. Show them why.