The Score Doesn’t Count ‘til the Bottom of the Ninth
Matthew
15:21-28
August 9, 2015
Mark S.
Bollwinkel
August 10th, 1987. San Francisco Candlestick Park. Giants vs. the Houston Astros. The Giants were in first place by one game
over the Astros. The score was 5-6 with
the Astros leading when the Giants came to bat in the bottom of the ninth
inning.
The pinch hitter struck out. Robby Thompson grounded out to the short
stop. The Astros were only one out away
from a win, taking a share of first place in their Division, when right fielder
Candy Maldonado hit a home run to tie the game.
The crowd of 35,000 went wild as
first baseman Will Clark came to bat with the scored tied, two outs in the
bottom of the ninth inning. Baseball was
designed for just such moments of exquisite tension.
Will Clark the Giants’ young, brash
superstar, took the first pitch looking at a strike. The next one was in the dirt for a ball; the
count 1-1. Eric Greg, the umpire, then
called the next pitch a strike, even though it was up around the batter’s
head. The crowd booed. Clark wheeled around in anger, shouting to
his team mates in the dugout, “oh, nuts!” [or something to that affect].
Furious over the umpire’s bad call,
Clark dug into the batter’s box, peered at the Astros pitcher, and sent the 1-2
pitch almost out of the ballpark for a home run. Clark dropped his bat and just stood there
looking at the ball land in the 14th row of the upper deck, which
only has 20 rows. The crowd was silent
in awe of his blast. Then as he began to
run the bases, the thousands exploded with cheers of “Go, Giants! Go, Giants!”
The Giants won the game 6-5. They would go on to win their first Division
title in years.
My sons Matthew, then age 7, and
Daniel, then age 10, and I were caught up in it all, chanting with the other
fans, “Go, Giants!” as we went through the parking lot to our cars. It’s a moment I will never forget.
Protestant theologian Paul Tillich
defines God as that which has “ultimate meaning”. With such a broad definition one could say
that baseball is an American religion.
No one can deny that it encourages passion, heroic effort, loyalty and
all sorts of ritual; all elements of the religious. Some, like my wife Bonnie, would accuse me of
confusing baseball with religion. But
then I can find God just about anywhere.
I coached Little League baseball for
four years in Reno, Nevada. Each year I
had anxious and excited players and parents, bugging me throughout the game,
“what’s the score…what’s the score?” Well,
the score hardly matters in Little League games that often end up 26-24, or
31-17. So I would simply and patiently
reply, over and over again, “The score doesn’t count ‘til the bottom of the
ninth”.
Now think about that for a
moment. It points to the beauty in the
game of baseball. The
phrase also contains a religious truth.
Please indulge me for a moment:
Each side must send nine players to
bat in order. Not just the best one or
the strongest one each time the pitcher throws.
Even the slow, fat, short, skinny or weak player gets a chance at the
plate. Each side gets to score or defend
equally. Each side gets nine turns. If it’s a tie at the end of nine innings, the
game could literally go on into eternity until one team scores. Baseball has no clocks. It is time-less.
Baseball as a game teaches
perseverance, character and hope. A good
coach tells his or her players, “Don’t give up!”, “Hang in there!”, “The score
doesn’t count ‘til the bottom of the ninth!”
[Or other words to that affect].
Now, I am talking about the game of
baseball itself, whether played by the Will Clarks or the 40 million children,
teenagers and adolescent grown-ups who play each summer in organized leagues,
and the millions of kids who play ‘sun-up-to-sun-down’ in sandlots and
playgrounds. I am not talking about the
Major Leagues or the politics and economics that go along with today’s
professional players.
Justice, fairness and equality are
ideals inherent in the game of baseball, but its institutions…just as the
church has done with its own ideals…have failed to live up to those standards
many times.
In 1908, the Ohio Weslyian
University baseball team played a series of games in Indiana. Charles Marshall, a black man, was denied a
hotel room with his Ohio teammates because of racial segregation in Indiana at
the time. One night, he stayed on a cot
in his coach’s room and wept at the indignity of being treated less than a
human being. His coach, a young man by
the name of Branch Rickey said, “I promise you, one day…one day…you’ll be
treated as a man”.
That day didn’t arrive in the world
of baseball until the Depression increased African-American employment in the
North. Until a World War demanded the
inclusion of American-Americans as full citizens in defending their
country. That day didn’t arrive until
1947, when then General Manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Branch Rickey,
selected Jackie Robinson to be the first African-American major leaguer.
Rickey selected Robinson not only
for his talent, which was legendary, but for his character was well. They made a personal agreement between each
other. For three years, Robinson would
take the abuse, profanity and insults expected and not give it back. He did just that at great cost but in so
doing, Robinson made an enormous contribution to the end of segregation, not
just in baseball but throughout the “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave”.
In spite of the strikes against
them, Rickey and Robinson would not give up.
They believed in the ideals of their game and of this nation. Through perseverance and sacrifice they
endured. I’d like to think that both men
being committed Methodists also played a part.
Professional baseball still has a
long way to go to reach its full ideals.
Some use the privilege of being in professional sports to raise money
for the victims of illnesses and call attention to the needs of the
dispossessed. Some of its players and
owners seem to care more about money and media attention than the game. Yet the game itself still demands fairness
and requires the character to persevere.
There in lies its ultimate meaning.
While Jesus and his disciples are on
the road, a Gentile woman approaches them crying out that Jesus is the “Son of
David”. Only the Messiah was to have
that title. It is rather startling that
a non-Jewish woman would make such a claim.
Remember that in that time for men like Jesus and his disciples, women
were considered less than full citizens. In fact they were considered the property of
the first born male head of household.
On top of that, for pious Jews, Gentiles were to be avoided as un-clean.
At first they ignore her. Then the disciples scorn her. Finally, Jesus himself says the bewildering
words, “I was sent only for the lost sheep of Israel.” Such a Biblical scene contradicts many others
where Jesus welcomes the outcast, Gentiles and women in particular. But what Jesus did or did not say to the
Canaanite woman is not Matthew’s real interest here. It is what she, and then Jesus, do
that really counts.
The woman falls on her knees to the
Lord, pleading for help. Jesus infers
that she has only the status of a dog.
Never-the-less, she says then in effect, “Well, then treat me like a
dog”. Finally, she has reached the
Lord, who sees the totality of her faith in him as the Christ. He publicly commends her and her daughter is
healed instantly.
Commentators try to ignore or
rationalize this story which is so odd.
Yet one thing it does emphasize is the power in Jesus for the believer
who is persistent, faithful and with hope that will not be denied.
The Canaanite woman didn’t give
up. She kept on trying to get through to
them in spite of their silence, scorn and insults.
Matthew clearly uses the story to
emphasize that the gospel in fact is not only for the “lost sheep of Israel”
but that is inherently fair. It is
intended for all people, even Canaanite women, even the likes of us.
We are not supposed to count
somebody out just because of the way they look, dress, their gender, religion
or ethnic background.
August 8th, 1987. Day game at Candlestick. Giants are playing Houston. The boys and I are sitting in Upper Box
seats, right behind home plate.
The weather is beautiful. It’s a perfect day for a game, except for the
loud, foul mouth bum sitting behind us.
This guy looks like he just got off of a ship. He is drinking beer after beer. He colors the air blue with profanity about
the umpire, the opposing team, the Giant’s mascot. It’s embarrassing for me to have my sons
hearing this stuff, so I tell them not to listen. They tell me that they have already heard all
of those words on the play ground at school!
In the fourth inning, Harry Spilman
is called in as a pinch hitter for the Giants.
He faces Nolan Ryan of the Astros, now a Hall of Famer. It just happens that Spilman and Ryan were
next door neighbors in Texas and best of friends. Never-the-less, Ryan tries his best to get
his buddy out, who keeps fouling pitches off in all directions.
Just then, Spilman fouls off a Nolan
Ryan fastball, directly at our section.
The ball arches right towards us.
My boys and I stand up, mitts in hand and reach as high as we can for
the speeding ball.
We miss it by inches, while it lands
in the lap of the foul mouthed bum sitting behind us. Wouldn’t you know!
Everybody sits down to watch Spilman
strike out and end the inning. Then I
feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find that the foul mouth, beer swilling
bum wants to give the ball to one of my boys as a souvenir of the game.
We have kept that ball in a special
place since that day. Not only because
it was thrown by Nolan Ryan, not only because it reminds us of a special day
between a father and sons, but because someone who we had counted out as a “no
good bum” turned out to have kindness and generosity in his heart.
Our gospel lesson this morning
teaches us to never give up on people.
To never give up on ourselves.
Jesus teaches us that the power of our faith is unleashed for those who
persevere and live by hope…because the score doesn’t count ‘til the bottom of
the ninth.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment