Amy has often said during our 15 years together, "You have the weirdest friends." It's a difficult point to argue on its merits, but I'm still usually able to muster some catty retort, such as, "Present company included."
What she really means is that, for whatever reason, I'm a nutcase magnet. (See my previous column for incontrovertible evidence.) Society's slag sidles up to me with frequency and abandon. Quite honestly, it's a badge I wear with honor, though it's nothing to brag about, for it's not intentional. Probably more like a genetic defect that resonates with the world's third wheels.
Well, Amy got a taste of my medicine Easter Sunday night as she exited the church building into the chilly evening air. (I'd say the weather was unseasonable but that would suggest Abilene actually has seasons.) As she was getting into her car to go home, a woman approached and asked, "I don't suppose you'd want to buy these gloves, would you?" Having never been asked that question, Amy was working without a net at that point, replying, "What do you need?" The woman - somewhat long in the tooth but short in stature and fragrance - answered, "I only have 11 cents, and I need something to eat."
Amy told her she'd take her to get some food, thinking they'd find the nearest drive-thru. Turned out, she needed breakfast for the following morning. Easter in Abilene means capricious climes and a good excuse for supermarkets to close early. The only store open was the one with the highest prices (starts with "Albert" and ends with "sons"). Then again, you only know these things when you actually have money to spend. Any amount over free is exorbitant when you have nothing. And this woman had nothing. Amy had a lot, so she shared, telling her new acquaintance to get "whatever she needed," which in this case totaled $42.
The stuff in the basket was legit - bacon, eggs, milk, peanut butter. No scratch-off cards or cancer sticks or cheap liquor. Amy took her home, which is to say the place she lived, a small shanty on Abilene's north side which she shares with a couple she believes is mentally unstable. (No word on what they think about her.) She has a son, a Marine now living in Germany who was recently hit by a car and is now convalescing on the other side of the world. She said she owed the couple she stays with $10 in rent and doesn't get her social security check for another 90 days and, "You don't - oh, God forgive me for asking this - you don't have $10 I could borrow, do you?" Amy, not knowing for sure, opened her purse and, of course, sticking out of her billfold was the corner of a $10 bill. What a coincidence.
Having invested $52 and 90 minutes in this woman and what with it being Easter and all, Amy figured she had nothing to lose when she said, "Do you know what Easter is all about?"
"Oh, yes," the woman answered, "I know all about God and Jesus. Maybe I'll come over and see your kids sometime at Highland."
"That would be nice," Amy said, then added, "Would it be okay if I prayed for you?"
"Oh, I wish you would," the woman replied, "and could you also give me a hug?"
Amy did both and drove back to her home on Abilene's south side that she shares with a husband she's now convinced is mentally unstable and three civilian children, all of whom were at the moment safe and sound and sleeping comfortably under warm covers near a full fridge.
As she recounted her own personal Easter service, I couldn't help but think that two millenia after the first Resurrection Sunday, Christ had indeed been raised once again.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Wednesday, April 7, 2004
Postcards From the Edge
Sneak a peek inside my mental scrapbook from a week in L.A.
Sign Of The Times
Runner-up for the best sign I saw in So-Cal goes to a dry cleaner in West Covina, which had this on the marquee: "Come celebrate March Madness with our 'full coat press.'" The undisputed champion, though, has to be the "Adopt-a-Highway" marker along the 101 that was sponsored by a company called 1-800-FUNERAL. I'm not sure which angle fits more appropriately: the fact that so much of that organization's business comes from that stretch of the 101; or that if anyone actually attempted to pick up trash along that route, their loved ones would know whom to call.
Do We Really Need This Much Convenience?
A convenient store in Puente advertised "Barbecue, Video, Liquor, Realty." I'd love to hear the guy telling his wife when he gets home, "I stopped off for some beer and brisket, and they were offering a free movie rental with the purchase of a beachfront condo in Santa Monica. I thought you might be upset, so I got Prince of Tides."
Nominated For Best Performance In A Printing Store
Where else but Hollywood do you see soap stars in a Kinko's? I'm in the store on Hollywood and Vine last Friday when in walks Thaao Penghlis (pronounced "thaao penghlis"), the veteran soap actor who was involved in perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious subplot in television history. Penghlis not only played Tony Dimera on Days of Our Lives but also his identical twin cousin, Andre. Read that last sentence again. Maybe that's why he was at Kinko's. He was making a copy of himself...or was it Andre... (cue the diabolical laughter, the goth music hitting a crescendo, and CUT!)
Honesty Is The Best Policy...Nudity Is A Close Second
One of the strip clubs that litter Sunset Boulevard took any mystery out of the decision for the Christ-follower struggling with purity. On the sign above the buliding was a caricature of a seductive woman...with horns coming out of her head. In case you were debating whether to patronize such an establishment, invoking the highly-underrated "Jesus Hung Out With Sinners" clause; the answer is yes, Satan is in here.
Maybe It Was My Red Boots And Cape
Living the bulk of one's life in Nashville and Abilene doesn't adequately prepare one for the kinds of conversations one has in a place like Hollywood. After a Palm Sunday worship service at the Hollywood United Methodist Church (the one with the huge pink AIDS ribbon on the side of the building), I stepped into a market around the corner and had this checkout-line exchange with a young man who did not share my interest in the opposite sex:
GUY: "Are you Christopher Reeve?"
ME (slightly stunned): "He can't even walk yet, can he?"
GUY: "I don't know. I was just going to ask you for your autograph."
ME (to the cashier): "Can I get a receipt?"
---
L.A. was good for my anecdote reservoir, but it's good to see my family again. I hope they like the beach.
Sign Of The Times
Runner-up for the best sign I saw in So-Cal goes to a dry cleaner in West Covina, which had this on the marquee: "Come celebrate March Madness with our 'full coat press.'" The undisputed champion, though, has to be the "Adopt-a-Highway" marker along the 101 that was sponsored by a company called 1-800-FUNERAL. I'm not sure which angle fits more appropriately: the fact that so much of that organization's business comes from that stretch of the 101; or that if anyone actually attempted to pick up trash along that route, their loved ones would know whom to call.
Do We Really Need This Much Convenience?
A convenient store in Puente advertised "Barbecue, Video, Liquor, Realty." I'd love to hear the guy telling his wife when he gets home, "I stopped off for some beer and brisket, and they were offering a free movie rental with the purchase of a beachfront condo in Santa Monica. I thought you might be upset, so I got Prince of Tides."
Nominated For Best Performance In A Printing Store
Where else but Hollywood do you see soap stars in a Kinko's? I'm in the store on Hollywood and Vine last Friday when in walks Thaao Penghlis (pronounced "thaao penghlis"), the veteran soap actor who was involved in perhaps the most unintentionally hilarious subplot in television history. Penghlis not only played Tony Dimera on Days of Our Lives but also his identical twin cousin, Andre. Read that last sentence again. Maybe that's why he was at Kinko's. He was making a copy of himself...or was it Andre... (cue the diabolical laughter, the goth music hitting a crescendo, and CUT!)
Honesty Is The Best Policy...Nudity Is A Close Second
One of the strip clubs that litter Sunset Boulevard took any mystery out of the decision for the Christ-follower struggling with purity. On the sign above the buliding was a caricature of a seductive woman...with horns coming out of her head. In case you were debating whether to patronize such an establishment, invoking the highly-underrated "Jesus Hung Out With Sinners" clause; the answer is yes, Satan is in here.
Maybe It Was My Red Boots And Cape
Living the bulk of one's life in Nashville and Abilene doesn't adequately prepare one for the kinds of conversations one has in a place like Hollywood. After a Palm Sunday worship service at the Hollywood United Methodist Church (the one with the huge pink AIDS ribbon on the side of the building), I stepped into a market around the corner and had this checkout-line exchange with a young man who did not share my interest in the opposite sex:
GUY: "Are you Christopher Reeve?"
ME (slightly stunned): "He can't even walk yet, can he?"
GUY: "I don't know. I was just going to ask you for your autograph."
ME (to the cashier): "Can I get a receipt?"
---
L.A. was good for my anecdote reservoir, but it's good to see my family again. I hope they like the beach.
Friday, April 2, 2004
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
There might come a day when I don't think it's cool to tell my buddies, "I'm in L.A. this week." But I doubt it. Just 24 hours into my latest So-Cal sojourn, I've already seen enough to bloat my blog for weeks. (By the way, "Bloat My Blog" is the name of a smoothie bar here.) And for every champagne wish and caviar dream, there's a hearty helping of hopelessness.
I landed yesterday in Ontario, one of roughly 900 airports in the Greater Los Angeles area. After spending all afternoon advancing a quarter mile on the 101, I realized why there's so much tarmac: it's actually quicker to fly from LAX to, say, Burbank than it is to drive.
I eventually reached Camarillo, a working-class burg about 30 miles north of L.A., where I hooked up with my good friend, Todd Bouldin, now the senior minister at Camarillo Church of Christ. He hoodwinked me into speaking to his Wednesday night class on evangelism - probably as an example of how not to do it. Todd strolled in a couple of minutes before 7 in a white, short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the navel, khaki slacks, sandals, and sporting a tan that didn't come from a bottle but after shave that did. I told him, "I'd love to see you trot that look into the pulpit at North Boulevard (his home congregation in Murfreesboro, Tennessee)." He flashed that impossibly-toothy grin of his and began rubbing in the fact that he doesn't live in Abilene and I do. ("The Toothy Grin," by the way, is also the name of a smoothie bar in Camarillo.)
After church broke up, we found the nearest sushi bar and talked about life in the mission field, his field being southern California and mine being the Latin world via Continent of Great Cities. Turns out the very reason Max Lucado's congregation took the name "Church of Christ" off their sign in San Antonio is one of the reasons people often wander into Todd's sanctuary. Seems our fellowship hasn't made enough of a dent in these parts to have scared people off. So when they see the words "church" and "Christ" on the same marquee, they step in to take a look. This is a congregation of regular joes with a genuine faith trying to figure out what it means to be Jesus in this sea of humanity. Praise the Lord.
Two days away from setting back the clocks, the sun rose at approximately 2:45 a.m. Thursday, which was fine because I couldn't sleep anyway knowing I was going to play golf at the famed Bel-Air Country Club that morning with my Uncle Pat. He joined Bel-Air in 1957 under the aegis of none other than Bing Crosby, who along with Fred Astaire, Clark Gable, Randolph Scott, and later Sean Connery, James Garner, Bob Newhart, et al established Bel-Air as the only place for Hollywood's "in" crowd to hang "out."
It's also a great club to join if you're exploring ways to "outsource" excess cash. Excluding initiation fees and monthly dues (which I can't even afford to type in this column), you could drop several hundy at Bel-Air without even getting out of your car. You can have your car washed, your shoes shined, your swing smoothed, your clubs caddied, your pants pressed, your thirst slaked, and your appetite sated, all while having your keister kissed. (Matter of fact, there's a smoothie bar right off the 10th hole called "Kiss My Keister.")
When one of the assistant pros said a "Mr. Pitt" would be joining us, I thought, "Forget Mr. Pitt, where's the missus, Jennifer Aniston?" Turned out our "Mr. Pitt" wasn't Brad or even "Mr. Pitt," Elaine's boss from Seinfeld. No, our "Mr. Pitt" was the caddy assigned to us. Guy named Joe Pitt, a Bel-Air bagger since '72. Joe's a Vietnam veteran and lifelong Cubs fan. He's not, however, much of a fan of our current President. Said Bush lied about why we went to war in Iraq. I didn't agree with all of his political persuasions, but I figured 8 months in Nam gives him the right to think whatever he wants...and out loud if he so chooses. Joe was one of a couple hundred working stiffs employed by Bel-Air to cater to the pretty people. Princes and paupers pari passu. What a place. And what a shot! I eagled the first hole, a par five, after my second swipe of the day came to rest two feet from the hole. Got around in 76, one of my best rounds in a long time on one of the finest courses on the planet. In the group ahead of me was Al Michaels of ABC. I nearly had a David-and-Goliath moment on the 17th when my approach shot missed his temple by an inch or two as he made his way back up the 18th. I apologized, but afterward thought it might've been better for my career had it firmly embedded in his forehead. Not the way I wanted to ascend to the microphone of Monday Night Football, but you take what you can get. Later in the grillroom, Uncle Pat and I chatted him up for a few minutes. Pat said, "Al, you and Grant are in the same business." I thought to myself, "Sure, Al, you've done a few NFL games in your day, but have you ever done play-by-play for the Canadian Tour's TravelTex.com Classic? I thought not."
As we wound our way through Bel-Air's surreal scapes, Pat would point out the homes of various stars and dignitaries belonging to Bel-Air. He remembered a great story from Jack Benny, legendary entertainer and notorious tightwad. Benny found himself "paperless" while sequestered in a restroom stall at the club one day. When he heard another member enter, he asked if there were any extra rolls of toilet tissue on the vanity. The man said no. Benny then asked if there were any paper towels handy. Again the man said no. Desperate but undaunted, Benny asked, "Got two fives for a ten?" Priceless.
Five minutes and one world away from Bel-Air, Hollywood's hookers and homeless wandered aimlessly down Sunset Boulevard where it intersects with La Brea Avenue. I was equally as lost as I searched for a hotel where I could hunker down for a day or so in preparation for producing a video for Continent of Great Cities. You could take an aerial photo of any city block in this section of town and the combined worth of the people in the picture might not match that of a single automobile the Bel-Air member is paying a hundred bucks to have washed at that very moment.
Meanwhile, coming through my rental car stereo speakers was the all-new Air America Radio Network, an election-year attempt by the liberal left to take back some of the ground Rush Limbaugh has gained for the GOP.
They don't have an Abilene affiliate.
My head is swimming from this 24-hour foray into the City of Angels. The hoi polloi and the high-and-mighty. The hackers, the whores, the holy. Many who fall into more than one category. All crammed together into a couple hundred square miles. And somehow Jesus Christ is Lord of all.
I need a smoothie.
I landed yesterday in Ontario, one of roughly 900 airports in the Greater Los Angeles area. After spending all afternoon advancing a quarter mile on the 101, I realized why there's so much tarmac: it's actually quicker to fly from LAX to, say, Burbank than it is to drive.
I eventually reached Camarillo, a working-class burg about 30 miles north of L.A., where I hooked up with my good friend, Todd Bouldin, now the senior minister at Camarillo Church of Christ. He hoodwinked me into speaking to his Wednesday night class on evangelism - probably as an example of how not to do it. Todd strolled in a couple of minutes before 7 in a white, short-sleeve shirt unbuttoned to the navel, khaki slacks, sandals, and sporting a tan that didn't come from a bottle but after shave that did. I told him, "I'd love to see you trot that look into the pulpit at North Boulevard (his home congregation in Murfreesboro, Tennessee)." He flashed that impossibly-toothy grin of his and began rubbing in the fact that he doesn't live in Abilene and I do. ("The Toothy Grin," by the way, is also the name of a smoothie bar in Camarillo.)
After church broke up, we found the nearest sushi bar and talked about life in the mission field, his field being southern California and mine being the Latin world via Continent of Great Cities. Turns out the very reason Max Lucado's congregation took the name "Church of Christ" off their sign in San Antonio is one of the reasons people often wander into Todd's sanctuary. Seems our fellowship hasn't made enough of a dent in these parts to have scared people off. So when they see the words "church" and "Christ" on the same marquee, they step in to take a look. This is a congregation of regular joes with a genuine faith trying to figure out what it means to be Jesus in this sea of humanity. Praise the Lord.
Two days away from setting back the clocks, the sun rose at approximately 2:45 a.m. Thursday, which was fine because I couldn't sleep anyway knowing I was going to play golf at the famed Bel-Air Country Club that morning with my Uncle Pat. He joined Bel-Air in 1957 under the aegis of none other than Bing Crosby, who along with Fred Astaire, Clark Gable, Randolph Scott, and later Sean Connery, James Garner, Bob Newhart, et al established Bel-Air as the only place for Hollywood's "in" crowd to hang "out."
It's also a great club to join if you're exploring ways to "outsource" excess cash. Excluding initiation fees and monthly dues (which I can't even afford to type in this column), you could drop several hundy at Bel-Air without even getting out of your car. You can have your car washed, your shoes shined, your swing smoothed, your clubs caddied, your pants pressed, your thirst slaked, and your appetite sated, all while having your keister kissed. (Matter of fact, there's a smoothie bar right off the 10th hole called "Kiss My Keister.")
When one of the assistant pros said a "Mr. Pitt" would be joining us, I thought, "Forget Mr. Pitt, where's the missus, Jennifer Aniston?" Turned out our "Mr. Pitt" wasn't Brad or even "Mr. Pitt," Elaine's boss from Seinfeld. No, our "Mr. Pitt" was the caddy assigned to us. Guy named Joe Pitt, a Bel-Air bagger since '72. Joe's a Vietnam veteran and lifelong Cubs fan. He's not, however, much of a fan of our current President. Said Bush lied about why we went to war in Iraq. I didn't agree with all of his political persuasions, but I figured 8 months in Nam gives him the right to think whatever he wants...and out loud if he so chooses. Joe was one of a couple hundred working stiffs employed by Bel-Air to cater to the pretty people. Princes and paupers pari passu. What a place. And what a shot! I eagled the first hole, a par five, after my second swipe of the day came to rest two feet from the hole. Got around in 76, one of my best rounds in a long time on one of the finest courses on the planet. In the group ahead of me was Al Michaels of ABC. I nearly had a David-and-Goliath moment on the 17th when my approach shot missed his temple by an inch or two as he made his way back up the 18th. I apologized, but afterward thought it might've been better for my career had it firmly embedded in his forehead. Not the way I wanted to ascend to the microphone of Monday Night Football, but you take what you can get. Later in the grillroom, Uncle Pat and I chatted him up for a few minutes. Pat said, "Al, you and Grant are in the same business." I thought to myself, "Sure, Al, you've done a few NFL games in your day, but have you ever done play-by-play for the Canadian Tour's TravelTex.com Classic? I thought not."
As we wound our way through Bel-Air's surreal scapes, Pat would point out the homes of various stars and dignitaries belonging to Bel-Air. He remembered a great story from Jack Benny, legendary entertainer and notorious tightwad. Benny found himself "paperless" while sequestered in a restroom stall at the club one day. When he heard another member enter, he asked if there were any extra rolls of toilet tissue on the vanity. The man said no. Benny then asked if there were any paper towels handy. Again the man said no. Desperate but undaunted, Benny asked, "Got two fives for a ten?" Priceless.
Five minutes and one world away from Bel-Air, Hollywood's hookers and homeless wandered aimlessly down Sunset Boulevard where it intersects with La Brea Avenue. I was equally as lost as I searched for a hotel where I could hunker down for a day or so in preparation for producing a video for Continent of Great Cities. You could take an aerial photo of any city block in this section of town and the combined worth of the people in the picture might not match that of a single automobile the Bel-Air member is paying a hundred bucks to have washed at that very moment.
Meanwhile, coming through my rental car stereo speakers was the all-new Air America Radio Network, an election-year attempt by the liberal left to take back some of the ground Rush Limbaugh has gained for the GOP.
They don't have an Abilene affiliate.
My head is swimming from this 24-hour foray into the City of Angels. The hoi polloi and the high-and-mighty. The hackers, the whores, the holy. Many who fall into more than one category. All crammed together into a couple hundred square miles. And somehow Jesus Christ is Lord of all.
I need a smoothie.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
A League of Their Own
The Highland Church spent parts of two Presidential administrations exploring ways in which the roles of women could and should be expanded within the congregation. Here's my question: did we decide if it's biblical for a woman to play third base? 'Cause we need one.
The Highland softball team (nickname: "Flings") fell to 0-2 Tuesday night with a 35-8 setback to our brethren from Hillcrest. No, not the church football team. Or basketball or bunko. No, it was softball. Sort of. In fact, to say that game was a setback is like saying Reagan edged Mondale. We had more torn muscles than runs.
A quick recap: The interim coach - okay, me - arrives seven minutes before game time and finds a total of eight martyrs, which happens to be the minimum number required to field a team. Game on! Our ninth stumbles in as the lineup card is being turned in. Another player - let's call him "Phil Schubert" to protect his identity - apparates five minutes, no outs, and four runs into the game as a substitute for regular outfielder Steve Shewmaker, who was serving a one-game suspension for violating team rules: specifically, hitting the occasional cut-off man and routinely advancing runners into scoring position.
The 'Crest Fallen (as someone - okay, me - names them) jump on our beleaguered pitcher - okay, me - early, plating six in the opening frame. We respond with two quick outs, an infield single, and a weak pop-up. Obviously staggered by our rope-a-dope style offense, they score but twice in the top of the second. Our third baseman answers in the bottom of the inning by pulling not one but two groins - both of which, thankfully, were his own - while legging out a routine grounder. We're scrappy, if not limber. We're also still scoreless.
In the top of the third, we see our last legitimate chance of winning go by the boards and, not coincidentally, we see our 270-pound shortstop's right hamstring for the last time. (Anyone finding it is encouraged to please return it to the league office.) If they ever do a remake of that cult classic "Seven Faces of Death," they've got to use the look that poor Hillcrest baserunner makes when he sees Joel airborne and heading right for him. It could be worse. The runner survives; Joel's hammy, however, does not. So he moves to pitcher where his batterymate is our bandy-legged third baseman-turned-catcher. More like an assault-and-battery.
Heading to the bottom of the third, it's now 15-nil and the only thing left to play for is the opportunity to fire off a couple of winning one-liners at the expense of our opponent. In the third, we stage what, by comparision, amounts to a rally - a couple of seeing-eye singles and three infield errors, leading to our first three tallies of the night. During this offensive explosion, the other team begins complaining to the lone umpire about one of our guys leading off second base - a no-no according to the rules, to be sure, but an understandable gaffe I think considering we'd never gotten that far before. That leads one of our players - okay, me - to shout, "Pharisees 15, Publicans 3." Everyone cracked up - okay, me.
Top 4, our new shortstop - okay, me - and second baseman graciously give way to the other on a sharp grounder up the middle. It goes through for a hit, upon which one of those two - okay, me - announces, "The top of the fourth is brought to you by Ephesians 5: 'Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.'" I believe Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translates that passage, "Let the other guy have his way, especially if you don't have the energy to move to your left and get a glove on it." Or something like that.
In the top of the fifth, the 'Crest - nervously nursing a 12-run lead - starts up again with the bellyaching over alleged "rules violations." Apparently it's not okay for our jailer-by-day/first-baseman-by-night Paul Mc Burney to handcuff opposing players while on the basepaths. Go figure. So this one guy on their team won't let it go, and it turns out he's still hot over the "Pharisee" remark. It probably doesn't help that one of our guys - okay, me - mutters, "Why would that bother you? You go to Hillcrest." Everyone understands it's meant in jest - okay, me.
After five innings, we've somehow crept to within a touchdown at 15-8, with one inning to go. Hillcrest - making the most of their three outs and several more that we generously supply them - ekes out an insurance run, then another, then another. They wind up with more insurance than an oral surgeon with Carpal-Tunnel. It's the first 20-run top of the sixth in Nelson Park Church League Softball history. All in attendance - okay, me - agree this moment in time is what Jesus prophesied in Matthew 24 when he warned, "Let no one in the field go back to get his cloak (which in Aramaic reads "groin")."
As they bat around for the eleventh time, one of their batters jokingly fires a verbal salvo. Paul, "The Flippant Jailer," suggests we charge the plate. Their guy says, "You better not. I've got the bat!" To which one of our smart alecks - okay, me - retorts, "We're not scared. We've seen you swing."
The inning mercifully ends when the umpire - after an unsuccessful attempt at committing harikari with his home plate mini-broom - calls a runner out who arrives at the bag roughly two revolutions of the moon prior to the tag. That prompts one of our players - okay, me - to yell, "Dr. Kevorkian, moonlighting as a church league umpire." That brings what's left of the house down - okay, me.
Down 35-8 and only three outs to play with, what we need is baserunners...and several tubes of analgesic cream. There may indeed be a balm in Gilead, but at the moment we're more interested in finding Ben-Gay in Abilene. Alas, the inning and game ends when our wobbly backstop is tagged after wandering off second base, perhaps having spotted one of the muscles he'd misplaced earlier. Final score: Hillcrest 35, Highland 8.
So as I was saying, it's time to expand women's roles at Highland. Tryouts start Sunday between services. I can assure you this has been approved by the elders - okay, me.
The Highland softball team (nickname: "Flings") fell to 0-2 Tuesday night with a 35-8 setback to our brethren from Hillcrest. No, not the church football team. Or basketball or bunko. No, it was softball. Sort of. In fact, to say that game was a setback is like saying Reagan edged Mondale. We had more torn muscles than runs.
A quick recap: The interim coach - okay, me - arrives seven minutes before game time and finds a total of eight martyrs, which happens to be the minimum number required to field a team. Game on! Our ninth stumbles in as the lineup card is being turned in. Another player - let's call him "Phil Schubert" to protect his identity - apparates five minutes, no outs, and four runs into the game as a substitute for regular outfielder Steve Shewmaker, who was serving a one-game suspension for violating team rules: specifically, hitting the occasional cut-off man and routinely advancing runners into scoring position.
The 'Crest Fallen (as someone - okay, me - names them) jump on our beleaguered pitcher - okay, me - early, plating six in the opening frame. We respond with two quick outs, an infield single, and a weak pop-up. Obviously staggered by our rope-a-dope style offense, they score but twice in the top of the second. Our third baseman answers in the bottom of the inning by pulling not one but two groins - both of which, thankfully, were his own - while legging out a routine grounder. We're scrappy, if not limber. We're also still scoreless.
In the top of the third, we see our last legitimate chance of winning go by the boards and, not coincidentally, we see our 270-pound shortstop's right hamstring for the last time. (Anyone finding it is encouraged to please return it to the league office.) If they ever do a remake of that cult classic "Seven Faces of Death," they've got to use the look that poor Hillcrest baserunner makes when he sees Joel airborne and heading right for him. It could be worse. The runner survives; Joel's hammy, however, does not. So he moves to pitcher where his batterymate is our bandy-legged third baseman-turned-catcher. More like an assault-and-battery.
Heading to the bottom of the third, it's now 15-nil and the only thing left to play for is the opportunity to fire off a couple of winning one-liners at the expense of our opponent. In the third, we stage what, by comparision, amounts to a rally - a couple of seeing-eye singles and three infield errors, leading to our first three tallies of the night. During this offensive explosion, the other team begins complaining to the lone umpire about one of our guys leading off second base - a no-no according to the rules, to be sure, but an understandable gaffe I think considering we'd never gotten that far before. That leads one of our players - okay, me - to shout, "Pharisees 15, Publicans 3." Everyone cracked up - okay, me.
Top 4, our new shortstop - okay, me - and second baseman graciously give way to the other on a sharp grounder up the middle. It goes through for a hit, upon which one of those two - okay, me - announces, "The top of the fourth is brought to you by Ephesians 5: 'Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ.'" I believe Eugene Peterson's "The Message" translates that passage, "Let the other guy have his way, especially if you don't have the energy to move to your left and get a glove on it." Or something like that.
In the top of the fifth, the 'Crest - nervously nursing a 12-run lead - starts up again with the bellyaching over alleged "rules violations." Apparently it's not okay for our jailer-by-day/first-baseman-by-night Paul Mc Burney to handcuff opposing players while on the basepaths. Go figure. So this one guy on their team won't let it go, and it turns out he's still hot over the "Pharisee" remark. It probably doesn't help that one of our guys - okay, me - mutters, "Why would that bother you? You go to Hillcrest." Everyone understands it's meant in jest - okay, me.
After five innings, we've somehow crept to within a touchdown at 15-8, with one inning to go. Hillcrest - making the most of their three outs and several more that we generously supply them - ekes out an insurance run, then another, then another. They wind up with more insurance than an oral surgeon with Carpal-Tunnel. It's the first 20-run top of the sixth in Nelson Park Church League Softball history. All in attendance - okay, me - agree this moment in time is what Jesus prophesied in Matthew 24 when he warned, "Let no one in the field go back to get his cloak (which in Aramaic reads "groin")."
As they bat around for the eleventh time, one of their batters jokingly fires a verbal salvo. Paul, "The Flippant Jailer," suggests we charge the plate. Their guy says, "You better not. I've got the bat!" To which one of our smart alecks - okay, me - retorts, "We're not scared. We've seen you swing."
The inning mercifully ends when the umpire - after an unsuccessful attempt at committing harikari with his home plate mini-broom - calls a runner out who arrives at the bag roughly two revolutions of the moon prior to the tag. That prompts one of our players - okay, me - to yell, "Dr. Kevorkian, moonlighting as a church league umpire." That brings what's left of the house down - okay, me.
Down 35-8 and only three outs to play with, what we need is baserunners...and several tubes of analgesic cream. There may indeed be a balm in Gilead, but at the moment we're more interested in finding Ben-Gay in Abilene. Alas, the inning and game ends when our wobbly backstop is tagged after wandering off second base, perhaps having spotted one of the muscles he'd misplaced earlier. Final score: Hillcrest 35, Highland 8.
So as I was saying, it's time to expand women's roles at Highland. Tryouts start Sunday between services. I can assure you this has been approved by the elders - okay, me.
Monday, March 22, 2004
Turn the Other Cheek...That Way They'll Never See the Left Hook
Don't ask my sons a question if you're not interested in honest answers. Last week at preschool, 5-year-old Nicholas got into a couple of scrapes with the only appropriate opponent - his best friend, Kyler.
At this point you need to know the difference in my two sons, which is best summed up thusly: Nicholas is our publican, Andrew our Pharisee. Nicholas would prefer to confess his sin, accept the punishment, then get on with the business of loving us in a restored relationship. Andrew, on the other hand, has a preternatural passion for knowledge, a passion I believe God will powerfully use to draw people to Him. But the desire to be right creates such angst during those very rare occasions in which he's wrong that his first reaction is to concoct some complex, trigonometric equation that will either justify his iniquity or wear you down trying to figure out what in the world he's talking about.
Back to last week's pugnacious preschoolers. Nicholas walked in after being dropped off by none other than Kyler and Kyler's dad - imagine Tyson giving Holyfield a ride home..."Sorry again about your ear. It really doesn't look that bad..." - and immediately told my wife in great detail the truth and nothing but. The missus, not wanting to discourage his openness and confession, reserved judgment for later. That's when the fun began.
Later that afternoon in the car, my wife asked the boys what they think they should do if someone hit them. Andrew said, "You should go find a grown-up and tell them what happened." Nicholas was having none of that: "I think you should hit 'em back." He didn't say that in a mean-spirited or emotional way. It was more like, "What other option is there?"
Andrew (with his wide phylacteries and long tassels dangling) was quick to counter, "Nicholas! That's not what God wants us to do!" To which Nicholas replied quietly but matter-of-factly, "I still think you should hit 'em."
God bless those boys. They have way too much of me in them to be predisposed to perfection. But how can you not love these guys? I have such appreciation for Andrew's desire to act justly. I adore the way Nicholas loves mercy. And what a challenge for us to teach and model what it means to walk humbly with our God.
I can already see how the kingdom will come into their lives in powerful but very different ways. For Andrew, it will mean eventually embracing grace instead of his own righteousness. I suspect he will live a more holy life than most but ultimately have to accept that it's little more than filthy rags in light of a perfect God. Meanwhile, Nicholas will need victory over the visceral. I can see him waging a lifetime war against his human nature when it comes to personal temptation and the sin of others.
Different behavior, same Savior. Andrew may struggle to be part of a kingdom that eagerly welcomes people who act like, well, his brother. Nicholas could very well struggle with feeling so fallible and witnessing how holy living seems to come more easily to Andrew. But what's wonderful to watch is how beautifully the boys model unity. These opposite ends of the personality spectrum are utterly inseparable. Best friends by a mile, warts and all. And they don't have a single test of fellowship between them. All they have is the same blood coarsing through their veins, and that's plenty good enough for them.
So if you slap my boys in the face, beware: you're just as likely to get a fat lip as a turned cheek. But whatever happens, you can bet they'll ride home together.
Psalm 133:1 - "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity!"
At this point you need to know the difference in my two sons, which is best summed up thusly: Nicholas is our publican, Andrew our Pharisee. Nicholas would prefer to confess his sin, accept the punishment, then get on with the business of loving us in a restored relationship. Andrew, on the other hand, has a preternatural passion for knowledge, a passion I believe God will powerfully use to draw people to Him. But the desire to be right creates such angst during those very rare occasions in which he's wrong that his first reaction is to concoct some complex, trigonometric equation that will either justify his iniquity or wear you down trying to figure out what in the world he's talking about.
Back to last week's pugnacious preschoolers. Nicholas walked in after being dropped off by none other than Kyler and Kyler's dad - imagine Tyson giving Holyfield a ride home..."Sorry again about your ear. It really doesn't look that bad..." - and immediately told my wife in great detail the truth and nothing but. The missus, not wanting to discourage his openness and confession, reserved judgment for later. That's when the fun began.
Later that afternoon in the car, my wife asked the boys what they think they should do if someone hit them. Andrew said, "You should go find a grown-up and tell them what happened." Nicholas was having none of that: "I think you should hit 'em back." He didn't say that in a mean-spirited or emotional way. It was more like, "What other option is there?"
Andrew (with his wide phylacteries and long tassels dangling) was quick to counter, "Nicholas! That's not what God wants us to do!" To which Nicholas replied quietly but matter-of-factly, "I still think you should hit 'em."
God bless those boys. They have way too much of me in them to be predisposed to perfection. But how can you not love these guys? I have such appreciation for Andrew's desire to act justly. I adore the way Nicholas loves mercy. And what a challenge for us to teach and model what it means to walk humbly with our God.
I can already see how the kingdom will come into their lives in powerful but very different ways. For Andrew, it will mean eventually embracing grace instead of his own righteousness. I suspect he will live a more holy life than most but ultimately have to accept that it's little more than filthy rags in light of a perfect God. Meanwhile, Nicholas will need victory over the visceral. I can see him waging a lifetime war against his human nature when it comes to personal temptation and the sin of others.
Different behavior, same Savior. Andrew may struggle to be part of a kingdom that eagerly welcomes people who act like, well, his brother. Nicholas could very well struggle with feeling so fallible and witnessing how holy living seems to come more easily to Andrew. But what's wonderful to watch is how beautifully the boys model unity. These opposite ends of the personality spectrum are utterly inseparable. Best friends by a mile, warts and all. And they don't have a single test of fellowship between them. All they have is the same blood coarsing through their veins, and that's plenty good enough for them.
So if you slap my boys in the face, beware: you're just as likely to get a fat lip as a turned cheek. But whatever happens, you can bet they'll ride home together.
Psalm 133:1 - "How good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in unity!"
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