So, it was with no small sense of wonder that in a game against Ward Presbyterian, our arch-rival, we were actually within striking distance in the bottom of the final inning with two runners on and me up to bat. I was never any kind of speed merchant on the base paths. Rusty Staub like speed probably best describes me. But, the times we played on fields without fences, I could usually hit the ball hard enough once or twice a game that, even with my diminished foot speed, I could lumber around for a homer.
The game I am remembering, there were runners on second and third with two outs and I was up for my team's last at bat - and we were down by three runs. I put every ounce of my then 6 foot, 265 pound frame into a long, hard line drive to deep left field that rolled forever and started my journey around the bases.
As I rounded second, I noticed the left fielder searching for the ball in tall grass and recall feeling like I was going to tie the game for sure. As I rounded third, the third base coach told me the ball was coming and to run harder. I looked up and saw that the other team's catcher, a child of 12 or 13, was standing in perfect position to block the plate and I said a small prayer for the relay throw to miss him by a mile. It didn't, it bounced once, hard, on the dry clay in front of the plate and skipped right into his mitt like he was a goalie making a glove save on a hard slap-shot.
"Crap," I thought as I came churning down the base-path. Either I had to kill the kid, or not. The kid, to his great credit, looked up with a face ashen with fear and apprehension as I churned down on him, but did not yield his position blocking home plate.
In the end, I dodged lamely to the left and was tagged out - standing chest to chest with the diminutive catcher. As he tagged me out, we each smiled as my teammates erupted with alarm and anger. "You should have creamed him!" screamed the players from the bench. "You cost us the game!" yelled another.
My face crimson, I turned toward the crowd and found my girlfriend (now my wife) who was the only other smiling face in the crowd. She understood. As I deadfooted it back to the bench, a solitary old man - his hands as soft as velvet - took up my hand in both of his and shook it firmly; meeting my gaze as only those from older generations seem to be able to do.
"Mister, that was the finest act of sportsmanship I have ever seen; and I just wanted to say "thank you." That boy is my grandson, and, well, I just wanted to say "thanks." His clear blue eyes peered right into mine, and I knew of course he was thanking me for not smooshing his grandson, a kid less than 1/3 my size (who never should have been playing catcher in the first place). He was thanking me for realizing that this was only a game and it wasn't worth anyone getting hurt over.
So, that night, I went from hero, to goat, to hero in the space of about 3 minutes. But walking back to my car I felt slightly taller; slightly more affirmed. My team, sensing that a rare opportunity for a win had evaporated into thin air but had also left behind an even more rare opportunity to celebrate the right thing, welcomed me back with open arms and we all had a good laugh about it.
So, what does this story have to do with bullying you might wonder. Well, we all have choices. We all can decide to smear the little kid playing catcher and win the game, or realize it is just a game and there are far more important things in the overall scheme of things, and then seize upon that knowledge and do the right thing.
A bully thrives on the idea that most people will not do the right thing; most people won't say "well, you invited all of us to the party but excluded this other one - I'm not letting you get away with that." Maybe more of us should. Most parents are so happy to have their child included with the "in-crowd" that they never think to confront the "in-crowd" on the very fact that they are guilty of creating an "out-crowd." Maybe, as a responsible parents, we ought to stop and consider that dynamic before we stand idly by and let the other kids feel heart-broken and alone in a small town.
A bully loves to pick on the little kid, or the disenfranchised, or the different or unpopular kid. And kids, at least kids whose parents don't work to confront and dilute the power of a bully by leading their kids to higher ground than that occupied by the bully, adopt a pack-like mentality just out of a sense of self-preservation. Well, what kind of world would we have if all of us taught our kids to say to the bullies “you're not getting away with that, I won't let you. I see what you're doing and we all know it's wrong.” What kind of world might we live in if we worked harder at inclusion than the petty bullies and deficient parents do at exclusion?
So that's what it has to do with bullying - we all see the choices around us. What separates the inspirational from the frustrating and ordinary and honestly pathetic is how we choose to confront those hard choices. We cannot begin to get serious about confronting the bullies of the world; physical and emotional, without also challenging ourselves to say "I will not tolerate this." Until we do that, it's all just empty talk.
So, thanks for stopping by my blog today. I hope wherever you are, whoever you are with, you look at those you love and see those who will grow into the people who will craft a better world for all of us; and that you move boldly and firmly and in the full light of day to make that happen.
Dennis
smalltowndad@hotmail.com
