Читать книгу The Mechanic's Gift - It is Finished - John Saurino - Страница 5

CHAPTER 1

At Bat

It came out of left field. The ball crossed the sky on its trajectory toward Nigel at second base. He was standing in position with his left arm extended for the oncoming possible third out to complete the inning.

Lord, please let him catch it. I thought to myself.

All of the hockey games were over, and the Boys of Spring arrived with the new baseball season. Nigel wanted to play this year with his best friend, Eric, who was almost a year older and played on a more competitive team. Even though Nigel was eight years old now, a one-year difference in eye-hand coordination is huge at this age. But my son was a very goal-oriented kid, and he had set his sights on experiencing life in sports with Eric.

As the ball approached, I could see Nigel narrowing his focus. There was a slight foot adjustment. His second hand moved to back up the one in the glove. He raised his arm to the appropriate height followed by the sound of success. “Pop!” The ball hit its mark. The crowd cheered, and I came to my feet when he touched the base to complete the play.

Nigel removed the ball from his glove, rolled it to the pitcher’s mound, and the team trotted to the fenced-in dugout. Eric was the first to congratulate him on the play with a pat on his head. Then he pulled Nigel’s hat forward over his face while both boys laughed. A few of the other teammates also expressed encouraging words at his good defensive play. Now, it was our turn to hit.

Eric led off with an excellent double to right field. Our other hitters had similar success, eventually bringing him around to start our run statistics for the season. It was Nigel’s first game with the team, and his initial chance at bat was quickly approaching. Getting a hit this year would be much more challenging since he would be facing a live pitcher. Up to this point, he had been batting against a machine-pitching system.

In this city league, a mechanical pitching machine was placed on the mound and used through age eight. When the players turned nine, they switched to kid-pitch. There was a major difference in accuracy and consistency of the pitches thrown by a nine-year-old versus a professional pitching machine. The smooth constant thirty-five mile per hour strikes in the middle of the zone found with last year’s machine were replaced by a splattering of balls passing through the space in front of each batter. The umpires did their best at creating a very loose strike zone, but could not keep the routine wild pitch from hitting a player about every third inning.

As my son walked toward the plate, I wished he had another year facing that three-legged machine, but he had made Eric’s team and was not going to let anything stop him from attaining his objective. Unfortunately, sometimes Satan throws a wrench into the best of plans.

Nigel was swinging his bat in anticipation of the first pitch. He pulled his cap down tightly on his head and stepped into the batter’s box. Once again, a prayer came to mind asking for God’s help with my oldest son’s new baseball experience. The pitcher reared back and let it fly. Nigel made a great cut at the very first pitch and the pinging sound from the aluminum bat indicated contact. The high fly ball looked like a good hit to far left field. It went beyond the outfielder until it eventually drifted into foul ball territory. I shook my head slightly and snapped my fingers in regret of what had just happened.

My experience in sports made me aware of how the slightest difference in one play can change the course of an athlete’s career. There are times when only a few feet, or even inches, create the difference between success and failure. Then, in many situations, the outcome can cause the player to spiral upward in triumph, or downward in defeat. Initial success will lead to more confidence in young players propelling them to further achievements, and unfortunately, lack of success at the start often creates a more-timid approach. This is why coaches have such an incredible responsibility 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.