Never Give Up

SWING, JIMMY, SWING

When our youngest son, Aaron was in the fifth grade, he wanted to play football, basketball, and baseball. I played football, so I helped coach peewee football. I played basketball, so I helped coach Royal Ambassador basketball for the church. I played baseball, my dad’s favorite sport—and my worst—so I was a dugout dad.

When Aaron’s Little League coaches asked me to be a dugout dad, out of ignorance I agreed. It had been a long time since I'd played catcher for the Mars Hill Little League, and a lot had changed. I asked the coaches, “What does a dugout dad do?” When you are ignorant you fall for anything.

They told me that I was responsible for having the batters in the right position and to make sure that everyone had the proper equipment. It always amazed me that Little Leaguers would run onto the field without their gloves or caps. I was responsible for team morale when a player was at bat. I was responsible for encouraging miniature Babe Ruths when they were crying after striking out; for doctoring cuts, scrapes, and wounded egos; answering all questions; and solving all of their gigantic problems. I should have coached third base. It seemed simpler.

We had eleven boys to play ten positions. That meant that the lone player and I would have this terrific discussion about why he was not playing and the other ten were. I was very lonely, and content, when one or two did not show up at game time. Most of the time, it was Jimmy and me in the dugout.

Jimmy was one of those little boys who could not do anything. Literally, Jimmy could not do anything. Since it was a dugout dad’s job to be personal trainer to the undeveloped superstars of Little League, I was Jimmy’s personal trainer.

When he threw the baseball, he threw from his elbow up. He could not throw the ball over ten feet. He looked like a little girl, or more like an infant throwing a ball. I encouraged him to use his whole arm and his body. By the end of the season, he could throw it around twenty feet. He was so bad we played him in the outfield opposite of where we thought the opposing batter would hit.

If the ball did go to Jimmy, we instructed him, he should throw it to one of the other outfielders, like Aaron, who would throw the ball to the appropriate place. I have watched as Jimmy tossed the ball to Aaron, who would throw the ball from deep in right field to home plate. Aaron had the arm Jimmy did not have.

When Jimmy ran, he shuffled his feet. He did not pick up his feet over an inch or two from the ground. He reminded everyone of a little old man inching his way around. He was so slow that when he got to first base, the first base coach would have him stand on the bag, foot against it, and tell him, “Don’t move.”

Poor Jimmy could not catch the ball. He would hold his glove up, and I would throw the ball to his glove. Repeatedly I would tell him to close his glove to catch the ball. When he started catching it, I would throw the ball where he would have to move his glove to catch it. He never did. His hand-to-eye coordination was horrible.

He could not hit the ball. He did not know how to swing the bat. I would toss, not throw, the ball to him. Jimmy would watch the ball all the way into the catcher’s mitt and then swing. When it was his time to bat, the coaches and I would have all the players chant, “Swing, Jimmy, swing” over and over. Every time, without fail, Jimmy would watch the ball all the way to the catcher’s mitt before he would swing.

Even though he never got a hit, Jimmy was a baseball magnet. We could count on Jimmy getting on base. After several games, we realized we had to put a runner on in Jimmy’s place to take advantage of his slothfulness.

We had a pretty good season and a whole bunch of fun, and the season went quickly. In our final game, we almost forfeited the game. It was against Maplesville, a baseball town with a string of championships in all age groups. They were the ones going to the next level of Little League. The only pitcher they could play was their best, the league best.

After a brief discussion, we decided that it was all about the boys, as it always should be. We went ahead with the game. The Maplesville Little League version of John Smoltz was throwing smokers, but we were holding our own, and it was a close game.

In about the fifth inning, we had two, maybe three, players on base. We had two outs, and we had a chance to tie the game. The head coach starting licking his lips—until he realized the next batter was Jimmy. He asked, “Is Jimmy next?” I answered that he was. His licking lips were all of a sudden parched.

Jimmy took his turn. The dugout gang had chanted “Swing, Jimmy, swing” so much that they had lost their energy. I hung onto the chain-link fence and in a discouraged plea said, “Swing Jimmy, swing.”

The miniature Smoltz fired a fastball down the middle, and Jimmy tried to watch it into the catcher’s mitt. He swung the bat after the leather had popped the catcher’s mitt. The pitcher reloaded and fired another fastball down the middle, and we begged Jimmy to swing the bat as the pitcher did his windup. Jimmy followed the ball into the catcher’s mitt and swung the bat long after the ball had found its way into the mitt.

Do you believe in miracles? What happened next cannot be reproduced in a movie and cannot be explained by coaches or by Little League moms and dads.

Amidst pitiful pleas from coaches, players, moms, and dads, muffled by roaring chants of the opposing coaches, players, moms, and dads, God performed a miracle. The smirking little pitcher unleashed a scorching fastball toward an inept little Jimmy’s last turn at bat. Bungling Jimmy swung early, hitting the fastball just as instructed.

A dropped jaw replaced a smirking grin on the pitcher. An unsuspecting second baseman watched a baseball kicking up dust as it raced past him. He looked like Jimmy watching the ball going to the catcher’s mitt. The outfielder, watching everything but the approaching ball, suddenly realized he had to chase down a possible infield home run.

One runner came home, a second came home, and a third runner, I think, came home. Our halfhearted, “Swing Jimmy, swing” changed to “run, jimmy, run!” Coaches were flagging running to the next base. I looked up, and there was Jimmy. He was not running. He had gone to first base and taken his normal position, foot beside the bag and not moving. That’s all he knew to do. We yelled, “go to second, jimmy, go to second!” He was too late and too slow, and the coaches stopped him on second.

The Jemison coaches, players, moms, and dads were going crazy. We had tied the game. Little John Smoltz blew up. Every player on our team hit the ball after that. If Jimmy could hit, they could. We won the game!

After the game a Little League mom started toward me. I am a big man and not scared of much, but I am terrified of Little League moms. I would rather face an attacking lion. This lady had fire in her eyes. She was almost in tears when she said: “I want to talk to you.”

Remember, I am a preacher. When someone wants to talk to you, most of the time, it ain’t good. I know that is not proper English, but it was not a proper moment, or so it seemed.

I said, “Yes ma’am, what can I do for you?” I did not know what to expect.

She asked, “Are you a pastor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Where do you preach?”

“Friendship Baptist Church, Blacksnake Road, Clanton, up past Jack’s Hamburger.”

“What time does church start?”

“Nine forty-five, Sunday School; eleven, worship”

“What do you wear?”

“Blue jeans, T-shirt, tennis shoes, suit, tie, dress shoes, Dockers, golf shirts—most anything as long as it is decent.”

“Can we come?”

“Sure”

“I’m Jimmy’s mom. I’m divorced from Jimmy’s dad and Jimmy lives with me. His stepdad knows nothing about baseball. Thank you for working with Jimmy and not giving up on him. We want to go to a church where a preacher and church do not give up on you.”

I was speechless. I kinda, sorta, had given up on Jimmy, but I learned that day to encourage people a little more.

Either make the tree good, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit. O generation of vipers, how can ye, being evil, speak good things? for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil things. But I say unto you, That every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned. (Matthew 12:33–37, KJV)

Do you feel as though the Church has given up on you?

Who is the Jimmy in your life, and how are you encouraging him or her?

If you are a Jimmy, who encourages you, and how do they do it?

Prayer: Father, forgive me for being discouraged when trying to coach the little Jimmys of life. Your miracle in the life of a Little Leaguer is evidence that you still perform miracles in ways that we are so unaware of and often never acknowledge. Thank You for those who recognize needs in others and seek help for them. I will always be eternally grateful for You placing me in Jimmy’s life. 

Swing Jimmy Swing is from my Devotional I Will Speak Using Stories: A Thiry-one Day Devotional