Summer evenings after dinner on Algonquin Drive meant kickball games.
While during the day we would play in front of Kenny Corsi’s house and dodge the
traffic, after dinner it was at the circle at the end of the street. Which had
some peculiar ground rules, like a home run was anything on the grass, except
for right field, Richie’s house was there, and if the ball went over the fence,
it was game over if no one home, and the dog was left alone-the biggest German
Shepherd any kid had ever seen. Left field was out of bounds as the family was
nice, but asked us not to hit their car, a 1958 Chevy Impala, just an old car
back then. The sewer drain was second base, chalk or the end of a parked car
was first and third, and home was the man hole cover. Simple enough any ten
year old would get it. Choosing team captains was easy, whoever brought the
ball that night was one, with exceptions, and the other bigger kid was the
other. We would choose up teams, and there was always one or two kids that came
with a penalty. Take him and we’ll spot you a few runs, or give you an extra
out. They would usually play right field by the dog behind the fence, where no
one would kick the ball. They always were last in the order, and if not paying
attention, we hoped, would get skipped over, and called an automatic out, which
they would be anyway. But sometimes luck would hit, and they would manage to
kick the ball after everyone had moved way in, and get on base. With bragging
rights when they got home that night. And the games went on until some mother
sent your father to get you, we could see amazingly well in the dark, and we
could see the headlights of any car even if they couldn’t see us. But no matter
how good or bad, you went home a winner, or a loser, only to start all over
again tomorrow night. And even if you were the last picked, negotiated for, or
made an automatic out, you had made the team, and your mom was so proud of
you. While your dad was just glad you survived another night with the bigger
kids.
How moms and dads would look at your sports career would influence me later
when coaching football. There were always some who just shouldn’t be on the
team, and I had the kids from the rich school one year. The other kids dads
worked for them, and was warned if we lost, I was in trouble. The first two
games we won, but got wasted bad in the third. And as I approached practice, I
remembered the warning, but was greeted with something completely different. I
had mothers with their kids in full uniform coming to apologize for not
winning. It wasn’t my fault, it was their sons, and they would play harder, and
they were sorry. I met them somewhere between humbled and humiliated, and we
grew as a team, gaining a whole new respect for those who weren’t as good, who
by passed their husbands and came right to the coach. Maybe they had been the
last picked, or overlooked, but they wanted their kids to win as much as anyone,
to be on the team was not enough. They wanted them to be heroes, and winners,
how could I ever let them down?
Pride gives us social order via finances, size, length of time saved, and
kickball ability. Jesus taught in the parable of how the last men hired were
paid the same as he first ones hired. The first hired had worked more, longer,
but got the same pay. And it didn’t seem right, but when explained it made
perfect sense. He always did. When you are in, you are in. You get all the
benefits offered regardless of time served, He was showing heaven was like that,
or better yet, the Kingdom of God. No favorites there, He loves us as we are,
even if we are that automatic out. And He makes ways for us that the talented
don’t have, for we are all just as important to Him. Richer, use your riches
for God. Stronger, fight for the Kingdom as directed. Newly saved, stay as
excited, reminding those old timers how exciting it really is, and how they have
forgotten that. Even the last ones picked will go to heaven, congratulations!
You made the team!
Every night we had different teams, and the best ones didn’t always win.
They got lazy, ignored the last one picked, or went home crying when the ball
went over the fence. Maybe their Mom called them home early, and the team had
to play without them, or maybe it rained, or maybe...I think you get it. But
the last one picked, the least of them, was just glad to be on a team. And went
home every night a winner for just being in the game. Some would get better,
some would bring their own ball, allowing for a rules change-“he could never be
captain,” but even though picked last, they never went home early. No matter
the score, or no matter how dark it got. They played every inning as if it were
their last, not knowing all the rules, or even the score, but playing just as
hard, because they were on the team.
Those summer evening kickball games were life to us. And the lessons
learned were more important than the scores. Kids would come and go out of the
neighborhood, some leaving as they hit Jr. High, where kickball was uncool, or
some new kid moving in, being picked last, and having to earn his way onto the
circle via kickball skills. With Jesus, once you are on the team, you are there
forever. Old age, Jr. High, girls, cars, and even motorcycles will not get you
off the team. You are that important to Him, no matter your situation. And
when He is your situation, you are always on the winning team. Remember that
next time someone kicks the ball out of bounds, or misses a catch, or drops the
ball. Next time it could be you, and if you are, or were that last kid picked,
welcome to the team. Congratulations-you made the team! You have all power and
privileges of the best All Star. And when that All Star is Jesus, you have it
all. And you thought kickball was just a game...oh and no spinners
allowed!
love with compassion,
Mike
mathew25biker.blogspot.com