About Baseball

An Atlanta Journal-Constitution photographer once captured a moment that, in my family, might as well hang in the Smithsonian. There’s my dad—pre-dad days—blocking third base at Spiller Field (Ponce de Leon Park), glove stretched, dignity, um, negotiable. The runner made it. Dad didn’t.

The next day, the photo ran it in the paper. The photographer even tracked him down and handed him an 8x10 print. That picture still sits among my most treasured possessions. Clearly not because of the play, that didn’t go as planned, but because of the man.

Dad loved baseball.

More importantly, he believed baseball could teach a young man how to live.

And he was right.

I grew up in Roswell, Georgia, back when it was small enough that if you sneezed downtown, somebody across town would say “Bless you.” About 5,000 folks then. Now it’s pushing close to 100,000, and when I go back, I need a GPS just to find where my childhood used to be.

Our house is gone—replaced by an elementary school. I suppose that’s fitting. That place taught me plenty before the school ever got there.

Not far away, there’s still a photo of my grandfather—once the Roswell Police Chief—standing beside the Fire Chief and the original firetruck he drove back from New York. That kind of story sticks with you. So does the place.

As we like to say around Atlanta… it’s all gone with the wind.

The old baseball field where Dad played—and later where I played—is now lined with soccer goals. Progress, I suppose. Though I’ve yet to hear anyone say, “He kicked a two-hitter.”

But I lingered there last time I visited, near the shadow of an old water tower, remembering.

Dad had a law degree, but his real education came from life—the kind that doesn’t offer refunds or retakes. He taught me everything that's truly important with a glove, a ball, and a steady voice from behind the backstop.

I learned the game in our backyard, between the house and a three-forked oak tree that saw more action than some minor league stadiums.

Looking back, I wouldn’t mind enrolling in that class again!

Years later, on a road trip to Nashville, I heard a song that brought it all rushing back. It was by Bob Bennett—A Song About Baseball.

Now, any reasonable person will tell you, that song isn’t really about baseball.

It’s about life.

About striking out. About coming up short. About walking back to the dugout wondering if you’ll ever get it right.

And then—about a father who loves you anyway.

Let’s be honest, we all strike out a lot.

I never made it to the big leagues. Never even tried, truth be told. I traded a bat, ball ,and glove for a pen and paper somewhere along the way. I’ve had jobs come and go, dreams that needed revision, relationships that didn’t quite make it to extra innings.

And even if I had hit a grand slam every time, a hundred years from now, nobody would remember the box score anyway.

What remains isn’t what we accomplish.

It’s what we did with what we were given—and Who we did it for.

So what’s the point, when life feels like more bench time than playing time?

Bob Bennett said it better than I ever could:

“But none of it mattered after the game,When my father would find me and call out my name…”

That’s it.

That’s the whole story.

I still remember one game—my finest hour on the mound. A two-hitter against our most “highly disliked” rival. (I’m trying to be polite here.)

After the final out, the umpire walked to the mound, shook my hand, and said, “Pitcher, that’s one of the best games I’ve ever seen pitched anywhere.”

I nodded, tipped my hat, like I’d done that sort of thing all the time. (I hadn’t.)

I held the ball up for Dad to see. He just smiled big, quiet, knowing.

And that’s when it hit me…

He had called every pitch.

Every. Single. One.

From the time I could barely throw the ball three feet, he’d been teaching me. Guiding me. Preparing me. And that day, he never left me. Not for one pitch.

When we met after the game, he didn’t give a speech. Didn’t break down the stats.

He just said, “Let’s go home and get some iced tea.”

Which, translated, meant: I love you, son.

It’s how he taught me life.

Not with lectures, but with presence.

Not with pressure, but with patience.

And not with conditions, but with love.

Life hasn’t always been a winning season for me. There have been losses, frustrations, moments I’d rather not see replayed on the big screen.

But through it all, one truth has held steady:

My value was never tied to how well I played the game.

And maybe that’s the lesson we all keep forgetting.

So much of what we chase just doesn’t matter.

And that’s okay.

Because when the game is over, when the dust settles and the scoreboard fades,

Our Father will find us, call out our name…

…and welcome us home.

And I suspect, somewhere in that moment,

there might just be a glass of iced tea waiting.

Copyright 2024 revised 2025, April 2026 Gary Landerfelt MyPericope.com