A Diamond in the Rough

To me, Tony was just another Tee-ball player who could not catch or throw. Despite my condescending attitude, Tony came. He was always there, and he came to give his all, but the truth of the matter was, there wasn’t much to his all.

Well, on that particular day, Tony hit the ball squarely off the tee, toward short left field, and having safely arrived at second, he was grinning from ear to ear. It was probably his best hit of the year. The next batter cracked a sharp one over the second base bag, and Tony started that little-kid run to third. You know how little kids run: kind of that half run, half trot that reminds you of those little weebles that wobble but don’t fall down. As he got closer to third, I waved him toward home plate, and to this day, almost three decades later, I can still picture myself: a grown man running down the third baseline with my hand cupped over my mouth like a megaphone, screaming at a frightened little six-year-old as he rounded the third base bag, saying, “Go home! Go home!” Notice I used the phrase “grown man,” not mature man—big difference.

Upon hearing my enthusiastic instructions to go home, Tony did the unthinkable; he came to a dead stop. He took off his oversized helmet, pulled the big brim on his cap down, did a 180, and started toward the outfield. The gleeful kid run he had had only a moment ago now looked like a discouraging shuffle, almost like a funeral march. I stood with my now quiet mouth gaping as I watched the little ballplayer now shuffling away.

I finally caught up with little Tony about midway between third base and the foul pole. As I got closer, I could hear the sniffling of a young person in emotional distress. A few more steps, and I could see his small chest heaving in and out with each sob. He was picking up the pace to avoid me, but with a few more manly strides, I managed to get in front of him and slow him down by grasping his shoulders. I knelt in front of him and lifted his hat to see red eyes and tear-soaked cheeks.

“Tony, why didn’t you go ahead and score the run?” I asked, still bewildered and confused by the chain of events.

In between sobs and sniffles, he finally managed to get it out. “I wanted to, Coach, my first run, but you yelled at me to go home, so that’s where I am going: home.” He grasped his sleeve with his hand and began to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks.

At that moment, my heart broke, and I realized what was so routine to me, so obvious, was completely foreign territory to this young man who was trying so hard. A miscommunication, a simple instruction in one mind had created inconsolable distress in another. How could I have possibly predicted this one? I pondered. Well, most likely I couldn’t have, but I didn’t even try. Tony was doing everything he could to be part of my world of baseball, and I had not reciprocated with any interest in his world.

So, dads, the question is simple: do we take time to understand where our children are at? The world is far different now than the one we knew as kids, and unfortunately, it is not for the better in many respects. Do we acknowledge that, or are we still telling stories about walking five miles to school uphill both ways? Do we listen and speak the same language so that going home means the same thing to everyone? Are you still speaking the same language as your wife, or has that, too, changed as your work paths and goals have separated and divided your efforts? If everyone is speaking a different language, all you have is a tower of Babel. Isn’t it ironic that when God wanted people to separate and go their own ways, to alter their goals, he didn’t bring pestilence, he didn’t bring war and strife, and he didn’t even bring a good old-fashioned famine. No, he eliminated their ability to communicate.

God tried to get us to speak his language. He taught us about holiness, he autographed the instructions in stone, and he tried to tell his people how much he loved them with manna from heaven. He revealed himself through the beauty of a rainbow and the mystery of a burning bush, and still we couldn’t comprehend. It seemed like he was directing his people toward home, only to find them wandering aimlessly in left field. He must have wondered, despite his acts of greatness, his instructions, and his love, why he couldn’t communicate with his own children. Again he had done it all. Perhaps his children simply didn’t want to communicate with him.

Hey, I know what I’m talking about here. I had a teenage son. Two, in fact. Sometimes despite my best instructions, my heartfelt interest, their response to any inquiry was to grunt and look skyward. Sometimes I think they have a language all their own that changes from generation to generation. The key is the lesson God taught us. His love was so great, his desire to teach us so strong, and his need for a relationship so consuming that he didn’t walk away. He didn’t give up.

Seems to me like such an essential topic should be a longer chapter, but my father used to tell me when I would become discouraged about my small stature, “Dynamite comes in small packages.”