Batters Hustling To The Plate To Take Their ...

Batters hustling to the plate to take their swings? Questionable calls going uncontested. Umpires being thanked after the game? Fans returning foul balls?

This is Major League Baseball?

It was. For a few weeks during the spring of ’95, professional baseball was a different game. The million dollar arms were at home. The Cadillac bats were in the rack. The contracted players were negotiating for more money. The owners, determined to start the season, threw open the gates to almost anybody who knew how to scoop a grounder or run out a bunt.

These weren’t minor-leaguers. The minor leagues were also on strike. These were fellows who went from coaching Little League one week to wearing a Red Socks uniform the next.

The games weren’t fancy, mind you. Line drives rarely reached the outfield. One manger said his pitchers threw the ball so slowly the radar gun couldn’t clock them. A fan could shell a dozen peanuts in the time it took to relay a throw from the outfield. The players huffed and puffed more than the “Little Engine That Could.”

But, my, did the players have fun. The diamond was studded with guys who played the game for the love of the game. When the coach said run, they ran. When he needed a volunteer to shag flies, a dozen hands went up. They arrived before the park was open, greasing their gloves and cleaning their cleats. When it was time to go home they stayed until the grounds crew ran them off. They thanked the attendants for washing their uniforms. They thanked the caterers for the food. They thanked the fans for paying the dollar to watch. The line of players willing to sign autographs was longer than the line of fans wanting them.

These guys didn’t see themselves as a blessing to baseball but baseball as a blessing to them. They didn’t expect luxury; they were surprised by it. They didn’t demand more playtime; they were thrilled to play at all.

It was baseball again!

… It wasn’t classy. You missed the three-run homers and frozen-rope pick-offs. But that was forgiven for the pure joy of seeing some guys play who really enjoyed the game. What made them so special? Simple. They were living a life they didn’t deserve. … These guys didn’t make it to the big leagues on skill; they made it on luck. They weren’t picked because they were good; they were picked because they were willing.

Max Lucado, In the Grip of Grace (Dallas: Word Pub., 1996), 90-91