About Baseball

AN ATLANTA JOURNAL-CONSTITUTION photographer took this snapshot on Spiller Field, also known as Ponce de Leon Park, home of the Atlanta Crackers, as my Dad (although he wasn't a "Dad" yet) unsuccessfully attempted to tag out the runner at third base. He was trying out to become a pro. This shot appeared in the paper the next day, and the photographer returned to give Dad his own 8 x 10 copy. It's one of my greatest treasures. Dad loved baseball. He believed the game taught life's best lessons.

I lived in Roswell, Georgia for the first quarter century of my life. Roswell is about twenty miles north of Atlanta and is bordered by the Chattahoochee River on the south end. The year I graduated from Roswell High School, Roswell was a small town with a population of about 5,000. Now, I recognize far less of the city layout whenever I visit. And Roswell's population has swelled to a bustling 93,000 plus! It stands as Georgia's ninth-largest city.

The house where I grew up was demolished years ago, replaced by a large elementary school that spans the entire old neighborhood. If I meander over to the Fire Department building where the original Roswell firetruck is staged, there is still a photo of my grandfather, who was the Police Chief for a time, standing next to Aubry Greenway, who was the Fire Chief. My grandfather traveled to New York to drive that firetruck back to Roswell. As long as I live, I will be attached to Roswell, Georgia. But as we sometimes say here in Atlanta, it's all gone with the wind.

When I visited Roswell last, I lingered longer near the shadow of the old water tower located at the edge of one of Roswell's historic cemeteries. The large, fenced area that now frames soccer fields used to be where my dad played baseball in one decade, and I played Little League and high school ball a decade and a half later.

My Dad graduated from law school but earned his degree in wisdom at the school of hard knocks. He taught me hundreds of lessons about life using baseball imagery.

I played out Dad's knowledge on the diamond and later in my daily life journey.

I learned baseball in our backyard between the back of the house and the three-forked oak tree. Those were some of the best days of my early life. Sometimes, I long for a refresher course.

In 2006, on a short road trip to visit friends in Nashville, Tennessee, I discovered a Christian radio station playing "A Song About Baseball." Though he had been selling records for years, it was my first moment to listen to Bob Bennett, a powerful song crafter.

To any reasonable person, it should be clear that "A Song About Baseball" is not simply a song about baseball—but a song about life: the disappointments we have, the inadequacies we feel, and the unconditional love our Father in Heaven has for us, even after we strike out time and time again.

And let's face it, we strike out a lot in life: Like Dad, I never made it to the big leagues in baseball. Never tried. I moved on to other interests before leaving home for college. I've worked hard all my life only to find myself unemployed at times. I have abandoned childhood and young adult dreams for reality. I have failed in relationships and disappointed some good people. But even if I had succeeded in everything I tried, a hundred years from now, everything "I accomplished" would have been long forgotten anyway. All that will remain of my deeds is what I did in dedication to whatever God asked of me.

So, what's the point of life when it's inevitable that we strike out and ride the bench too much for most of it? I believe the answer to that question is sweetly described in the last lines of Bob Bennett's "Song About Baseball":

But none of it mattered after the game

When my father would find me and call out my name. And

Dreaming of glory, the next time out

My father taught me what love was about:

He loved me!

No matter how I played,

He loved me.

I don't recall a single time when I've listened to this song and haven't teared up at these lyrics. It isn't just about baseball; it's not just about the love of a father; it's a truth that lies at the heart of reality itself: we will always "dream of glory the next time out." It was placed in us by our Creator. Think about this:

The real glory that transforms us is the love that is there in our failures.

I will never forget the countless times Dad would come home from working all day, grab a glass of iced tea, a glove, and a ball, and say, "Let's go play pitch." We solved the world's problems using baseball terminology while honing that game's physical and mental skills.

I'll always remember the day I pitched a two-hitter against our team's most hated rival. After I struck out the final batter, the umpire walked out to the mound, shook my hand, and placed the ball in my glove, saying, "That was one of the best games I ever saw pitched anywhere. Nice job, pitcher!" I was stunned. I replied faintly, "Thank you, sir."

I grinned as I held up the ball for my dad to see, and he smiled so large, shaking his head. And that's when it hit me: he had called every pitch while standing behind the backstop during that game. Over and over, he had been teaching me how to move the ball around and to mix up my pitches since I was big enough to throw one to his waiting glove three feet away. That day, he was "one" with me to the last pitch. When he met me off the field, his only comment was, "Let's go home and grab a glass of iced tea!" which was one of his many ways to say, "I love you."

Dad used a game in life to show me how to properly play the game of life which provided a map for me to follow in my youth. His wisdom has protected and guided me all my life. Now that I'm older, I can recall that life has had many disappointments and frustrations. But the reassurance and calming support of a loving father continually spoke into my heart that my value will always be far beyond whatever might happen on any field of dreams or whatever recognition I might or might not receive from people. Dad's a hard act to follow.

So much of what we do in life doesn't matter…and that's okay, for after the game, Dad will find us, call out our name, and welcome us home.

Copyright 2024 revised 2025, Gary Landerfelt MyPericope.com