I
was never much of an athlete. My mind simply wasn’t quick enough to respond to
the instantaneous reactions needed for sports. It hasn’t improved as I’ve
gotten older, by the way. All through grade school a common phrase that got
repeated like a mantra on the playground was, “You guys get Foster. We had him
yesterday.”
Needless to say, I dreaded “play period”
because not being good at sports was shameful in those days. I don’t know if
it’s any better today. I hope it is. In fact, I had a Sunday School teacher,
who shall remain nameless, who said in class one time that if you didn’t like
sports, then you were not a good Christian. I swear that that’s true! That
pretty much took care of any hopes I had in my young preteen life of being in
favor with God. Guilt and rejection rose in my psyche like a thermometer on a hot
summer day.
Of course, the athletes were the cool
kids—the admired kids—the popular kids. I used to daydream that one day I would
wake up suddenly and be a super athlete. I even prayed about that, making
promises to God to be especially good if God would just make that happen. It
was a true test of faith when that didn’t materialize. (That would join the
list of my other requests, one being that I would go out to the garage/barn one
morning and find a pony there, just waiting for me to ride it. I won’t go into
detail about my other requests.)
At any rate, technically, I never really had
to wait to find out what position I was going to play—right field—where kids
seldom hit the ball. I just needed to know for which team.
One day during a softball game on the
playground of the Milton H. Allen elementary school—I’m guessing the year was 1955
or thereabouts—the usual routine of team selection took place by the “captains,”
and I made my way to my appointed position.
The game dragged on. I daydreamed my way
through most of it. Then suddenly I heard some commotion up toward home plate. Kids
were looking in my direction and I couldn’t figure out why. They were yelling
something that I couldn’t make out. I took off my hat (as if that were going to
help), and lo and behold, much to my surprise, a ball landed it!
Kids were ecstatic! “Do you see that?” “Whoa, Foster! Way to go!” For one brief moment of my life, I was a
sports hero of sorts.
The next day when the teams were being
chosen, I was certain somebody would mention my name first. They didn’t. The
mantra was familiar: “You guys get Foster. We had him yesterday.”
Years later, listening to Peter, Paul, and
Mary (one of my favorite groups of all time), Paul Stokey sang a song he had
written called “Right Field.” It blew me away. The story of the lyrics sounded
almost identical to my big moment in softball.
Hearing that was both amusing and enlightening
at the same time. What seemed like such a big deal years ago, was really little
more than the growing pains of finding out who I am and who I am not. It’s true
for all of us I think. Those moments when we feel awkward or out of place are
really part of the self-discovery process. They are in no way a judgment
against our self-worth nor as signs of failure. They merely correct our course
in the direction of where we are meant to go.
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