Have Glove, Will Travel_ Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond - Bill Lee [83]
Jeremiah mentioned that his farm was just down the road. When I told him I had three hours off between games, he invited Anna and me to go fishing in a pond on his property. Once there, we could see that Jeremiah was no man of means. The only building on his property was a forlorn, weathered barn. He did not own a farmhouse. He lived year-round in an aging though well-tended trailer.
No sooner had Jeremiah’s hook splunked through the water than that pond turned into his pulpit. “Do you read the Bible, Bill?” he asked in a matter-of-fact way, just as if he were asking what color shoes I wore.
Forget whatever catches hid near that muddy bottom. Jeremiah was fishing for my immortal soul. Touching as that was, I pitied him. He had decided to come at me with the old soft sell, apparently thinking that my pain would make my conversion a slam dunk.
A mistake. Hurting or not, I am the sort of person from whom veteran Seventh Day Adventists run uphill through fire after only a minute of conversation. Certainly all of the god squadders I had met in the major leagues considered me beyond saving. While playing with the Montreal Expos in 1981, I woke up in the trainers’ room after being out all night long as well as a good part of the morning. What a view to greet the new day: I opened my eyes to seven Expos’ asses on the bench directly above me, sitting through a prayer service led by our catcher, Gary Carter.
I rolled out from under the bench as quietly as possible, hoping to sneak out a side door without being noticed. Soon as my teammates saw me, they insisted I take a seat. They had waited for this all season—an opportunity to save the prodigal pitcher.
But as the players stepped closer, their noses crinkled. Stay out from dusk until past dawn, crawling through the darkest alleys of the Montreal netherworld, there is bound to be an unmistakable aroma about you. The moment Gary Carter caught one whiff of my breath, smelling of Johnnie Walker Black and last night’s redhead, any thoughts of redemption fled.
“Maybe it would be best,” he said, “if you just go off to the showers.”
Gary understood his pitcher. He knew these Expos for Jesus didn’t have enough resources to deliver me to salvation. We were playing a single a game that afternoon; there wasn’t enough time to perform any miracles. Converting me would require a day-night doubleheader with a lengthy rain delay.
Don’t misunderstand. My mind is open, and I am willing to let you persuade me on almost any subject. Nevertheless, I rate time as a more valuable currency than money, and if you expect me to spend mine, you had better deliver a full return on my entertainment dollar. Anybody who wants me born again must come prepared. Be ready to multiply loaves and fishes, speak in tongues, and transform water into wine. Show me a thousand angels poised on the head of a pin. Appear before me as a burning bush. Make my six-foot-four frame pass through the eye of a needle. I want to see you break dancing for Christ.
Jeremiah had no idea he was dealing with one of Satan’s frontline troops. At first he was delighted to learn that I had indeed read the good book. To jostle my memory, he quoted New Testament passages, all of them referring to sins of pride. “You tend to strut a bit out on the mound,” he said, “as if you think you’re better than anyone else on the field.”
Sure I strutted. I was better than anyone else out there, and I knew it. None of those players had ever played professional ball. Why, the Grand Canyon does not stretch out as wide as the gap between a professional ballplayer and an amateur.
But, hell, I had spent my entire adult life as a pitcher. No one had to give me any lessons in being humble. I told Jeremiah, “You will not find anyone more familiar with humility than a guy who has given up three-run homers on line drives