That Umpire is Blind!
by Victor P.
It was a warm Saturday in May. The kind of day that makes one forget about the recently concluded Chicago winter. I was working that afternoon as a high school baseball umpire for a local high school. Neither team was particularly good, nor was there any prospect of post-season playoff success. Nonetheless, I went about my avocation with my usual attention to detail, and as much professionalism as my $45.00 pay check could encourage.
As the last inning began, the home team coach called to the visiting team coach and asked him to meet at home plate. He motioned for my partner and me to meet there as well and the four of us had a conversation. The home team coach asked for our indulgence. It seemed he had promised the “bat boy” that he could have one “official” at bat in a high school varsity baseball game. The coach explained that the bat boy was mentally retarded, and when the game was officially over and the last, real official out recorded, he wanted to bring the bat boy out for his at bat. He asked us to “stay in character” and give the boy an authentic experience. The coach went on to explain that he would personally pitch to the bat boy so the opposing team’s pitcher wouldn’t have to worry about what to do.
I saw the visiting team coach return to his bench and call a quick team meeting to explain the situation. My partner and I looked at each other and we both just rolled our eyes. We weren’t getting paid enough to be part of this charade, and furthermore, I wanted to go home. I was tired.
After the last out was recorded, I heard the home team coach yell, “Jimmy, get a helmet on, I want you to pinch hit!” Jimmy looked back at the coach through thick, Coke-bottle eyeglasses and said, “For real coach!” “Yep, get in there,” was the reply.
Jimmy came up to the plate wearing a mismatched striped t-shirt and plaid pants. He had on black socks and tennis shoes and a helmet that was far too big for his head. I’m no mental health expert, but it was clear that Jimmy was mentally challenged. The coach stood about half-way between the pitcher’s mound and home plate and softly tossed the ball underhand to Jimmy. He swung and missed, strike one. Again, strike two. Finally, on his third swing, Jimmy hit the ball about four feet. Everybody yelled, “RUN!”
Jimmy ran to first base, and the catcher picked up the ball and dutifully threw over the first baseman’s head into right field. The first base coach yelled for Jimmy to run to second. As he was rounding second and heading to third, the relay throw came in from the right-fielder to the second baseman, who turned and threw over the third baseman’s head. The third base coach yelled for Jimmy to run home. Jimmy crossed home plate, and the entire team was waiting to congratulate him. You would have thought Jimmy single-handedly won the World Series. Jimmy yelled to his father in the stands, “Daddy, I hit a home run!”
The reason this story is a parable for me is that it is not a historical allegory telling me how God acts with humankind, nor is it a moral story telling me how to act before God and towards one another. (See Ludwig, p. 16) Rather, this story shattered the deep structure of my accepted world, removing my defenses and making me vulnerable to God. You see, I was something of a “mentally retarded-a-phobe.” That is, I didn’t think the mentally handicapped were particularly valuable to society, I was uncomfortable in the presence of them, and I certainly did not think they could teach me anything. Instead, Jimmy taught me mercy and compassion, and the love he had for his father was no different than the love I had for my father, and Jimmy’s father was no less proud of his son for his home run, than I am when my “normal” child hits a home run. Jimmy stretched me, challenged me and provoked me that day to thank the God who taught me how valuable the mentally handicapped, and indeed all life is.
To this day, I don’t know who had the more profound experience – Jimmy for hitting a home run, or me who experienced the mystery of God’s love on a baseball field, on a warm May afternoon. All I know is that like Jesus’ cure of the man born blind in John: 9, I had new sight. Maybe that’s why people say that umpires are blind!