Baseball Season (And the faith story I've never told)

I was at-bat, facing a 1-2 count in the bottom of the 2nd inning on a baseball field in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1998 when things changed.

Some people know the story of what happened next, but they actually only know part of it. Today, as baseball season is once again nearly upon us and I'm feeling nostalgic for times spent on diamonds throughout my youth, I want to reflect on that moment, what led up to it, and tell you the strange twist of fate that led me in no small part to where I am today.

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When I was ten I tried out for the Cubs--one of six teams in the Golden Valley Little League "major" league. Our Little League was divided into the Majors, consisting of the best 9-12 year olds, the Gold league (the rest of the 10-12 year olds), and the Blue league (the rest of the 8-9 year olds). Most leagues use similar systems, even if they have different names.

I was a scared ten year old. I was pretty good at baseball, but I honestly wanted no part of being in the "Majors." I had two years in the Blue league under my belt and I had played very well, but I wanted to have at least one year in the Gold league before trying my hand against the big boys. This was part of the reason I didn't make the Cubs. I actually skipped one of the tryout days to go to a Twins game (the real, professional Twins, of course). I was one of the last cuts and I was, frankly, relieved.

By the time the next year came around I was trying out for the Twins (the Little League ones) and this time I made the team as a confident 11-year-old. What followed was my best year of baseball at any level. Back then I could hit--not for power, and I wasn't super fast--but I didn't strikeout and in Little League that's about as valuable as anything. In my 11-year-old year I set all-time team records for batting average (.767), on-base percentage (something higher than that), doubles, and triples.

Yes, those who know me might find it hard to believe that I once held a record for triples (something usually reserved for fast people). I'm sure the Twins don't still keep records, but I'd consider it unlikely that anybody has batted better than .767 in a year. But, even then, I was a pitcher first. I loved to pitch, and that stuck with me for years after Little League, through Babe Ruth and high school. There was something about pitching that made me very happy.

I arrived in the Golden Valley Little League at exactly the right time, surrounded by a confluence of talent. The year before, while I was enjoying my time in the Gold league, twelve of the best ten-year-olds from the majors came together to win the State Championship for 9-10 year-olds. I didn't even know this was happening at the time, but the next year I found myself amongst many uniquely talented 11-year-olds. The expectations were high for our 12-year-old year. 1998 was that year.

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The Little League World Series is the most visible extension of Little League baseball in the United States, but it's possible for kids to go through Little League and never have an idea how anybody gets to play in Williamsport. Little League is that big and vast, and there are so many talented young baseball players in America and all over the world. So, here's how it works. Every community Little League has the opportunity to construct an All Star team of 11 and 12 year-olds from all of their players and that team comes together once the regular season is done to play in the end of the year tournaments--first Districts, then State, then Regionals, then the World Series, which in 1998 consisted of 4 U.S. teams and four International (it's now 8 of each).

So, the important point is that each town gets to pick its All Stars from among its "Major" league. In Golden Valley there were six teams to choose from, so there were a lot of 12-year-olds, and many who were deserving. So, honestly, I wasn't even sure I was going to make it. I remember when I got that call. I wasn't sure I was going to play much, but, honestly, that didn't matter. I had made it.

*  *  *

Golden Valley is a Minneapolis suburb that is physically, socially, and economically bisected by Highway 55. The southern part of town is in the Hopkins school district, the northern part is in the Robbinsdale district, and the economic and cultural divides based on where you live are real and noticeable. Throw in Hidden Lakes and the Tyrol neighborhoods and Golden Valley has a strange mix of varying levels of middle-class alongside some of the most wealthy families in the Twin Cities.

Rarely do these different backgrounds come together except in a town-wide organization like Little League baseball, and our team from 1998 was a mix of Hopkins-bound kids and Robbinsdale-bound kids. It wasn't so much a case of "haves" and "have-nots" as much as it was two different social worlds that were only bound to interact for so long. I was friendly with members of our team, but even now I'm not sure how many of us were really friends. In fact, today, I'm Facebook friends with none of them.

Our team was expected to win. We had won two years before, and we were just as good--if not better--by the time the tournament rolled around in 1998. When districts began we won handily in our first few games. I even hit my first (and only) career home run in a game against Big Willow. The pitch was literally above my head and I tomahawked it over the right-field fence where it struck the front bumper of my dad's car. That was about as poetic and strange a sports moment I can remember.

But it didn't all go smoothly. We lost to South Tonka, 3-2, and had to come back through the "Loser's bracket," before facing Crystal LL in the District championship. Crystal is a neighboring city to Golden Valley, and neither of our little league programs had ever gone to state (in the 11-12 year old division), so it was fairly astounding that our two little league programs were facing off for the district championship. We were going to have to beat them twice in a row to move on, and in the first game we were getting killed. I don't remember what the score was (I suppose I could ask some of my friends who played for Crystal and remember that game much better than me), but we were behind by a lot, and somehow clawed our way back into it. I remember some bad umpiring. I even remember the umpire's name (how terrible is that!?). But one way or another we won. Twice.

Like I said, I didn't really remember because I didn't play much. I was maybe our 3rd or 4th or 5th pitcher depending on who you talked to, but for the most part we were getting by with a one-two punch of Dan Wallach and Karl Turbenson. The rest of us just came in to eat innings so they could rest for the games that counted. And, in Little League, that can work just fine. At the state tournament, I finally got a chance to start and pitched a four inning shutout against Cloquet in the semifinals. We won 10-0.

*  *  *

Before the Districts began I had learned how to throw a sinker. Up to that time I basically relied on placement, throwing the same fastball (which wasn't that fast) and trying to place it so that hitters would miss. This worked fine up to this time, but by the time I represented my town I knew I needed another pitch. Somewhere along the line somebody had told me about throwing a baseball as if it were a football, keeping my thumb and index finger straight up-and-down and snapping down when I released. It wasn't a curveball, where you snap your elbow as well as your wrist; it involved only the wrist, which was supposed to be better for a 12-year-old arm. I can't imagine it was a very pretty pitch--and I'm sure I was telegraphing it like crazy--but it was also incredibly effective against young hitters. Some of them had seen curveballs, but few had seen this.

My sinker sank something like three feet. Now a lot of that was gravity--I didn't throw it very hard--so it was the LL equivalent of the "eephus" pitch, but it did have downward spin as well. It moved and it made my not-so-fastball look faster. It made me effective, and against Cloquet it was extremely good.

The funny thing about the State Championship is that I wasn't even there when we won it. I had decided to go to Bible camp at Lake Wapogasset instead of being there for the championship game, since I had pitched the day before. It just made sense to me, but looking back I can't believe I did that, and I can't believe it was allowed. Maybe I was just oblivious to others' feelings about it, but I'm actually fairly proud of 12-year-old me and maybe this was a hint of what was coming. Maybe my priorities were starting to straighten out, if only just a little.

*  *  *

The Little League Regional Tournament was (and is) in Indianapolis, Indiana. I remember the charter bus we took down there, the police escort out of town, the awesome selection of brand new bats we got from Little League baseball (as a means of evening out the playing field), the dormitory housing, the awkwardness of living with a ton of 12-year-old boys, the games of ping pong and tennis ball baseball on the lawn of the dormitory, eating out with our host families, golfing with friends who traveled with to watch. That was really an astounding experience. After all that we enjoyed at the regionals I can only imagine what the World Series is like.

Our first game was against Oklahoma. We won handily, 13-2. The only downside for me was that I gave up the two runs in my one inning pitching, forcing us to play an inning longer. I mean, we won, but I was disappointed. They were the first runs I had given up pitching for Golden Valley Little League.

From there, things went downhill. We were a very good team but so were many others. We ended up losing consecutive 5-4 games to Ohio and Illinois. It was pool play, so we still had a chance (we needed to finish in the top two of the six team pool), but it was looking unlikely. We needed to win our last two games and have several things go our way. This is where we found ourselves before a game against Nebraska--in a must-win situation--when one of the coaches pulled me aside and told me I was going to be the starting pitcher.

*  *  *

Dick Isaacson is a Golden Valley Little League legend. He spent over forty years volunteering as a coach, but by the time I knew him his coaching career was winding down. He is such an institution that Golden Valley's primary ballfield now bears his name. Years after our 1998 season I remember seeing him at a game. We started talking about baseball and I mentioned that I loved watching Little League almost as much as the real thing (meaning Major League Baseball). He scoffed and said, "No. This is the only real baseball."

Dick was one of our coaches for that 1998 team, and I'm not sure if he or Dan Grossman, our manager, was the one who told me I'd be pitching that game. But I remember vividly that Dick  vocally defended the decision when the outrage came.

Sometimes it's difficult to know peoples' real feelings about you until you are placed into a position of trust. On that day, I was entrusted with giving us a chance to win against a quality Nebraska team, and some parents were not very happy--one in particular being particularly vocal in his opposition. I remember talk about how we were giving up, how our two star pitchers still had innings to use, and I remember feeling distinctly awkward. But I also remember Dick yelling back, "He was put on this team to pitch and that is what he'll do." It was probably the most important confidence-boost I'd had in my young life.

So, when we faced off against Nebraska I took the mound in the top of the first inning, and I remember feeling determined, though this could easily be revisionist history. Probably I was just scared to death. The first inning I set them down 1-2-3. I didn't look up into the crowd. The worst irony was that the parent who had been most vocal against me pitching was the person who had been calling my pitches in the district and state tournaments. He stood behind the backstop where both the catcher and I could see him and when he took a sip from his cup I was supposed to throw my sinker; otherwise, it was a fastball. I don't remember how we called pitches in Indy, but we had worked out something else.

The second inning came along and again I sent them down 1-2-3. I was pitching a perfect game. Well, OK it was a perfect two innings. Things could still unravel from here, but to this point not only was the decision to pitch me justified, it was looking brilliant. It was in that moment--in that situation--that I came to the plate to bat in the bottom of the second, and everything changed.

*  *  *

I can't recall the first time I decided I wanted to be a pastor. I wrote on it in eighth-grade, but it had to have been in my head before then. And I also can't recall the first time I prayed without an adult instructing me to, but the first memory of prayer that I have now took place on that ballfield in Indianapolis.

With a 1-2 count, and in the midst of throwing two innings of perfect baseball, I took a swing at pitch down the heart of the plate and fouled it straight back, but as I turned to swing, my right knee didn't turn with my hips. It just stuck out there, as if my lower leg were just a little slower than the rest of my body. The pain was instantaneous and terrible. From then on this would be the barometer for physical pain in my life. I fell over, landed on home plate, and the kneecap, which had been dislocated, popped back into place. I heard later that people in the crowd had heard the pop. I don't remember a noise, just the sensation. And I knew my Little League career was over.

So that's a story I've told before. It's a story I've told to puff myself up. We were state champs, after all! But all the baseball stuff I've talked about up to now, especially the personal achievements that I actually cringed about while typing because I know how important they were (and, on some level, still are to me), all of that is really preface to what happened next.

What I haven't told anybody until now is that, as I sat on the bench in the dugout for the rest of that game, I looked up into the sky and off into the distance and thought, "I guess I'm meant for something else." It's so silly. I mean, it was only baseball. Even if we won against Nebraska (which we did) and even if we won the next day against Wisconsin (which we did) our run was likely over. As it turned out, that's exactly what happened. But to a 12-year-old that kind of thinking doesn't matter. I wanted to play and couldn't. I wanted to grasp on to my Little League career and not let it go--it had been too good for me to let go. So, as I sat in that dugout, leg elevated and tears streaming down my face, Ryne (the only other member of our team who played for the GV Twins), asked me if it hurt that bad, and, in probably the first wise moment of my life, I said, "No. It's just that I can't play."

*  *  *

In the years since I've often looked back to that moment, gazing out at nothing in particular from that dugout in Indianapolis, and I've wondered whether I'd be on the same path I am today if not for that injury. I don't mean that I would have played baseball any better or longer, or that I was hampered physically because of my poor knee. Rather, I mean that without the knowledge that even as good a thing as baseball will eventually come to an end, whether by physical limitation or loss, I may never have found faith to be all that important. And without the experience of feeling hurt by people who didn't believe in me I too may have the same attitude they had--toward sports and life. I, too, may have believed that winning was the only important thing.

But my path went a different way. I still love baseball--in some ways more today than ever--but I love baseball with some much-needed perspective. Today, I'm a pastor... probably not because of a baseball experience from 1998, but that is part of my story. And it's part of my story I'm reminded of every year around this time.

Afterword
Of the fourteen players on the 1998 Golden Valley Little League 11 and 12 year old All Star team, only three played varsity baseball in high school that I'm aware of (myself, Brian Martin, and Ryne Case). Astonishingly, in an age where everybody stays connected with everybody, I'm not Facebook friends with a single member of that team. I have run into one or two of them over the years and shared some memories, but those occasions have been few and far between.

There is little mention of our big season on the internet. 1998 was a time before the world wide web had taken over and print media is hard to come by. The Wikipedia entry for "Golden Valley" had an entry about our team once upon a time, but wiser heads decided that wasn't that important, though in the nether world of the internet you can find that old entry if you look hard enough. My mom still has scrapbooks, but that's about it. The pennant for winning the State Championship is not publicly displayed anywhere, to my knowledge, which is just as well. It was good--it was fun--and life goes on.

Golden Valley Little League keeps chugging along. I've occasionally gone to games in my free time, and I've enjoyed it immensely. On a nice summer evening, I can see teams playing in the park from my parents' house. Golden Valley hasn't won a district tournament since 1998 (my brother's team finished 2nd in 2000), but by any measurement that counts (which is not wins and losses) the league continues on going strong.