A Fan's Joyful Lament

It was the last gasp of an extraordinary baseball season for the Kansas City Royals, and the tying run stood 90 feet away. Kauffman Stadium was jammed with over 40,000 fans decked in blue and rocking, waving, screaming, hoping.

A 25-year-old cyborg creature masquerading as a San Francisco Giants baseball pitcher was staring down a 24-year-old catcher armed with a bat that a month ago had salvaged an improbable wild card game and launched the Royals into a mystical, magical playoff run--the first such appearance of any kind in Kansas City for a generation.

All kinds of history, records, and personalities populated this single moment. Las Vegas had figured the odds. Pundits had fingered the key players and made their predictions of potential stars. And there had been whispers, hushed only by the audacity of the claim, that perhaps the Royals were (Shhhhh!) a Team of Destiny. They had won eight straight in the playoffs against teams with superior records. They  had taken the Giants, seeking their third World Series win in five years, to a rare seventh game, one of the most exciting of all events in sport. And now, in the 177th game of the season, it all came down to this single, very pregnant, moment.

In a matter of seconds it all wilted--the pitch, the swing, a pop-up on the infield gathered in routinely by the third baseman, who then flopped down on his back as if he had caught a cannon ball.

The crowd that had for three hours cheered as one suddenly cheered as none. The quiet was deafening. That lost moment had sucked the air out of the stadium. Even the people who hadn't been to a baseball game in ten years but were sitting in $1000 seats stopped networking for a bit, recognizing that something untoward had happened out there. The focus of attention immediately shifted to the victors converging on the field. Microphones were pushed into the faces of the celebrants, most of whom served up the platitudes typical of post game interviews. There were only a few exchanges with the losing team--"How does it feel to spill out your guts every day for seven months and then lose it with the game standing just a few feet away?"--sensitive questions like those.

The magical, improbable journey of the decades with its last minute comebacks, its startling catches, stolen victories, and inspiring drama had fallen one run short. And that made all the difference. There will be no appearances on Letterman, no ticker tape parade, no visit to the White House. The record books will be altered by this series and this game, but most of the big ones will have "Giants" beside the numbers. If a new face appears on a Wheaties box it will not be topped by a blue cap with KC above the bill.

And worst of all, we will all have to start hearing "wait till next year" way sooner than we're ready to hear it, embrace it, or comprehend it. It is like asking a woman who moments ago gave birth after a long labor if she planned to have any more children. Not the right time to ask.

That said, my lament for the fact that my team had scratched its way to the top only to fall a fingernail short is injected with an undeniable sense of joy that is not measured in baseball terms although it is prompted by this baseball story with its sad/happy ending.

My feelings are not from thinking about the team that will take the field next year, although I am heartened by the returning core players and the minor league prospects who are on their way to the Big Leagues. They are not really about the fascinating personal stories in the clubhouse, although I have been inspired by many of them. They aren't about the national and international goodwill enjoyed by the team as well as the city of Kansas City and its environs, although it warmed my heart to see our town and team in that positive light.

Rather than those probable sources of joy, mine came out of a feeling I have been experiencing for over a month, but of which I never spoke. I have been immersed in this playoff run, thought about it every day, listened to sports radio, read the thorough coverage by the Kansas City Star and other publications, managed to see one of the ALCS games in person with my son, and did all the other things one might expect of a lifelong baseball fan after a 29-year October baseball drought.

I had a general sense of what was going on in the world, but was far less focused on that than I usually am. I knew there were awful beheadings in the Mideast. I heard the reports of the scary Ebola virus killing thousands of Africans and beginning to threaten this country as well. I was saddened by a senseless shooting in the capital of the peaceful country of Canada, the place of my birth. I saw that more children had died from the senseless gun violence that is so pervasive these days. I was assaulted by tasteless and deceptive political commercials from both sides of the shameful political divide in this country. I was saddened by the untimely death of a friend. And in the midst of all of this the game played on.

So yes, in my preoccupation with men playing baseball games I began to feel some uneasiness prompted, I guess, by guilt. How can we devote so much time and energy to entertainment which, despite the outlandish salaries and misplaced priorities, it still is? How can we spend thousands of dollars for a seat at a three-hour game when that same amount of money could feed a starving Third World village for months? And on and on.

But then I started to think about this baseball team and to consider what it represents. There are young men there who grew up in the most humble circumstances and were able to channel their natural gifts into the fulfillment of a dream they never would have imagined. There were aging stars who had labored through an entire career without tasting baseball's greatest prize until now, contributing more with their heart than their bat. There was the video of a Royals player in Baltimore who picked up a game of catch with some kids outside the stadium; the video went viral. There was a phenom-in-the-making who played in the College World Series and the MLB World Series within a period of about four months--never had that happened in the history of the game. There were scores of tributes, some of them tearful, from players who wanted everyone to know that they would never have been here without the sacrifices and support of their moms. The list is endless.

Life is about imagination and hope. Both of those things have to be carved out of real experience. I think that is why this amazing journey by a baseball team caught the attention of people literally around the world. The team and the game transcended baseball and embodied hope.

I'm trying to understand why I am not in more pain over losing it all in the last out of the last inning of the last game. I feel empty, but not profoundly sad. This story strained for ninth inning heroics, for David slaying the Giant (get it?), for the satisfying sense that all is right in the world.

But perhaps that is the joy embedded in my lament. It is not a perfect world, and not all endings are happy, but they can be joyous. That happens in the deeper sense of the word when something occurs that is so good, so real, that it is etched forever on our hearts. That has happened to me during this glorious month of October.

And as to next year, I'm not ready for that. This World Series isn't done with me yet.

Learnings from Ashley - Part 2 of 2

A few days ago I had some fun with this blog when I posted some reflections from the experience of caring for my granddaughter over a period of two months. It is easy to smile at Ashley's expressions or to cluck our tongues because of how cute she is. We love her innocence even in knowing that life will soon make it over into something else. But enough of that--for now we shall embrace the joy and allow it to lift our spirits and fill our hearts.

But there is something more to all of this than diaper stories. I am learning how a young child unwittingly provides us with a chance to peer deeply into our own souls and to discover things that might even transform us, but will at the very least cause us to ponder. Here are a few things I stumbled onto.

Born to be Ashley. When Ashley was in the womb the family used to talk about what she would look like. Those sonograms are pretty awesome, but once the genitalia issue was resolved it was difficult to determine much else about her features. And then she arrived. Our response was, "Of course, THAT is what she looks like. She's Ashley. She resembles....." (well, take your pick on that one--kind of depends on what branch of the family tree one hangs on). But this we knew--she's Ashley, looking exactly like she should, like we knew she would all along.

Born as a Person of Worth in the Sight of God. One of the centering principles of my life comes from my own faith tradition, in which it is proclaimed that all persons are of inestimable worth in the sight of God. This concept has profound implications for how we live our lives, conduct our relationships, and shape our political and economic priorities. I love this principle. Now comes Ashley to embody it.

Born Joyful. When Ashley was about two months old I found myself fascinated by her smiles, her laughter, and her joy. Where did this come from? What made something funny? I wrote about this a few months ago in a blog post I called "From Whence Cometh Joy?" I still marvel at it but Ashley has persuaded me that joy is birthed within, written on our inward parts. I don't know that I can defend this in College Anatomy 101, but it passes the Ashley test. Joy is in there somewhere, maybe swimming around with the intestines and the kidneys for all I know. So here's the deal. My little granddaughter has made it clear that her joy is something to be nurtured. We're going to help her with that. And don't anyone dare try to snuff it out.

Born to be a Healer. This is a little personal and perhaps a bit presumptuous but I claim it as something I learned from Ashley. Over the course of those weeks we spent together Ashley and I had some conversations. Our faces were just a few inches apart during these times. We looked into each others eyes while talking and, miracuously, she didn't divert hers. She kept her gaze focused as I told her some things she needed to know. But I also talked with her about some pain and loss that has come into my own life in recent years, largely of my own doing. When I was done talking she kept her gaze and then she did something remarkable. She gurgled forgiveness and her little hand wrapped around my finger and squeezed out a dose of redemption. I embraced the gift with tears.

Ashley is growing up in a difficult time. An unconscionable war is being waged in Iraq. Gasoline prices are spiraling upward at a record pace and the American economy is in trouble. It is a political season, one with some positive signs but also serious dangers. Ethnic, religious, and political divisions threaten our global culture.

Part of me wants to shelter her from all that. But another part of me knows she cannot be sheltered, indeed must not be. After all, she is the one who brings me the most hope, the most promise for a better day, the best reason to believe in the possibilities of tomorrow.

And a little child shall lead them...

From Whence Cometh Joy?

Our wonderful granddaughter, not quite two months old, has been remaking our world. It is not just her indisputable beauty, her disarming charm, or her obvious brilliance. It is something more, something deeper and even a bit mysterious.

In the past few days Ashley has begun to smile and even to seemingly laugh inwardly in response to external stimuli. It is now too frequent and predictable to allow you cynics to dismiss it as gas. This beautiful little girl is beginning to know joy.

But why? I'll admit my three-finger helicopter landing on her stomach is pretty entertaining. My ability to twist my face into something resembling a mop would obviously result in gales of laughter among those older and more sophisticated. But how does Ashley know this is funny stuff?

It may seem like an insignificant question, but I think it is something well worth pondering. I cannot account for it except to say it seems clear that laughter and joy are inbred and not learned. To have joy, to laugh, to smile--these are inherently a part of what it means to be a human being.

I have had the privilege of traveling rather widely throughout the world. I can distinctly remember playing with a group of children in an African village. We shared no common language. We came from entirely different worlds. But within minutes we were all laughing and joking together as we played little games that American children would readily know. Laughter knows no geography, culture, or language. It comes from within.

There are many things in our world that conspire to snuff out joy and to mute laughter. To do so is a crime against humanity. Ashley has reminded me that a smile is far more than a pleasingly upturned lip. It is a declaration of life itself.