Don't Prejudge a Look Alike

I wish I had a fifty-cent piece for every time in my life when someone told me I reminded them of someone else. Sometimes they say it’s the way I act. Sometimes it’s the way I talk. But mostly they say it’s the way I look. I guess that means I’m fairly generic when it comes to my personal appearance. And I’m okay with that. My best friend growing up was the one all the girls looked at and gawked over. Nobody ever accused him of looking like somebody else. He was his own man and was proud of it. Meanwhile, I was his tag along companion who reminded everybody of their third cousin. So quite often, I became the token “thrown-in friend” when a male was needed to complete the foursome necessary to constitute a double date. It beat staying at home. In 1980, the movie “Popeye” starring Robin Williams became popular during my sophomore year of high school and people told me I looked like him. Minus the muscles. During my early college years, the television show “Cheers” arrived on the scene. People told me I looked like Woody Harrelson. At first I was okay with that but when he later starred in “Natural Born Killers” (a truly disgusting movie), I decided I didn’t like being associated with Woody. And he’s done little since to change that perspective. Whatever the case, I still hear people tell me quite often that I remind them of such and such or so and so. Not that it should matter, but I usually ask whether or not they like that person. It’s a fair question. I think sometimes I see people that remind me of somebody else and almost immediately I make my first judgment about them based on the person they remind me of. Of course that’s not fair, but I must admit I’ve been guilty of that before. I think that’s why nobody wears a Hitler moustache this day and age. Yet people often make inaccurate judgments about our personalities based on who we look like. Which is why I’m glad no one has ever mentioned me resembling Richard Nixon, Ozzy Osbourne, that Blagojevich guy, the Unabomber, O.J. Simpson, or Rosie O’Donnell. Recently I attended a town hall meeting where a member of the U.S. House of Representatives spoke. I waited to meet him afterwards and upon shaking his hand he remarked that he seemed to remember us meeting before. I was pretty sure we hadn’t but I didn’t want to embarrass him so I kinda nodded and speculated that maybe we had. Then I mentioned that maybe he had seen my picture in the paper due to the little columns I write each week that appear in a few local newspapers. The look on his face told me that this was not the case. Embarrassed by my own presumptuousness, I then decided it was probably déjà vu all over again and I mumbled something about people saying quite often that I remind them of someone else. I should have known the vast majority of the local citizenry is oblivious to my columns- especially a Congressman. And even if he did stumble upon my column, he certainly wouldn’t bother looking at the picture. Oh, well, at least he didn’t think I was Woody Harrelson.

Inspired by the Kids Once Again

Pictured third from left is Kati Beast ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I will confess to you from the start that I recently remained on a rooftop during a thunderstorm one day and a drenching downpour the next day. Before you question the area of my brain that secretes good sense, let me explain. I’ve been on two in-country mission trips this summer. Both involved construction work geared toward homes of less fortunate folks who are financially unable to afford necessary repairs. In both cases the main workers are middle school and high school aged kids. They work their buns off in the heat and share their faith with the people they meet in the neighborhoods as often as possible. Good stuff. On my first trip, I served as the worship speaker each of the six nights we were there. I spent most of my time with the summer staff, which was basically college kids. As the worship leader for the week, my days were spent with the staff traveling around to each group. Along with encouraging them, we dropped off supplies, treated minor injuries, gave out hugs, took pictures, and forced the kids and their adult chaperones to take well-deserved breaks from the 100+ degree temperatures along the way. As we were making our rounds one day, someone made note of the fact that I was twice as old as anyone in the truck. Gee thanks. But it didn’t seem to bother anyone, especially me. At one point, the four of us sang along with the radio at the top of our lungs when Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” was playing. Forty-six years old and I can still hang with the kids. An even more significant moment occurred a few songs later when the station was changed and “Amazing Grace: My Chains Are Gone” came on. Again we all sang every word of Chris Tomlin’s awesome rendition. Bound by the Holy Spirit we were. And during those moments, there was no generation gap. I hardly knew these kids, but we experienced a holy moment together. On my next mission trip, once again I was the oldest in our group. Our job was to re-roof a house and our leader was a 21-year-old college girl named Kati. She was a pretty girl with pink streaks flowing threw her blonde hair. Make no mistake, Kati knew how to roof a house. At one point on the first day, a thunderstorm hit us while most of the roof was uncovered. Unphased, Kati began tacking plastic to the roof to protect it, oblivious to the pounding rain drenching her. The kids were ordered to the bus but the adults stayed and basically watched the college girl on the roof complete her task. When the exact same scenario occurred again the next day, Kati was rock solid once again. When the rain stopped, she was thoroughly soaked and the wet pink streaks in her hair were more pronounced than ever. It was then I proclaimed her to be “Kati Beast”, a complimentary title normally reserved for courageous male macho feats of strength. These kids amaze me. Yes, they can be immature at times. Yes, many things are easier for them than they were for my generation. But don’t tell me they’re all spoiled and disrespectful. I met plenty this summer who weren’t. And as usual, they have inspired me beyond words.

Close to Perfection

Recently a baseball scout relative of mine and I were discussing what the perfectly pitched baseball game would be. A pitcher gets credit for pitching a perfect game if nobody on the opposing team reaches base. But we took it a step further. We agreed that it would be 27 pitches where every batter hit the first pitch and as a result, an out was recorded. He wanted 27 flyballs, but as a former infielder, I preferred 27 groundballs. Either way, the goal of a perfect 27 pitch game is unattainable. At some point, batters will begin to let pitches go by and not swing. Yet twenty pitchers in Major League history have been credited with hurling perfect games. The word “perfect” in this case is a statistic, not an adjective. An absolute perfect game is unattainable, and a perfect pitcher or person does not exist on this planet. I’m curious to know how many people remember the name Armando Gallaraga. He’s the young big league pitcher who, on June 2, barely missed becoming the twenty-first pitcher in history to toss a perfect game. And it would have been a “perfect” game if veteran umpire Jim Joyce had made the proper out call at first base on what would have been the last out of the game. But Joyce blew it. And after watching the replay after the game, he knew it. Instead of running for cover by claiming he’s human or saying something about how he did the best he could, the man admitted his mistake. He was devastated and apologetic. He didn’t blame his seventh grade gym teacher. He didn’t blame the liberal media or the military industrial complex. He didn’t blame sugar-sweetened cereals or fast food. He took it like a man. An imperfect man. And Gallaraga was just as impressive. He grinned when the call was made. He brought the pre-game lineup card out to Joyce at home plate the next day to demonstrate his respect. Umpires and referees- imperfect human beings- miss calls and make mistakes. And I gotta believe most of the time they don’t blow calls on purpose. Yet people throw stuff at them, call their mothers bad names, and make jokes about how there won’t be any baseball games in Heaven because no umpires will be there to officiate. But alas there is hope. The aforementioned near-perfect game incident occurred in Detroit, the same city that inexplicably nearly burned itself to the ground while “celebrating” after its baseball team won the World Series in 1984. Perhaps these thoughts were going through Jim Joyce’s mind as he walked out to home plate to umpire the day after his infamous blown call. With trembling hands and tears in his eyes, Joyce accepted the lineup card from Gallaraga. And when Joyce’s name was announced, the crowd cheered. Yes, cheered, not jeered. They cheered because a man was humble enough to admit his mistake. They cheered because they respected his heartfelt apology. And they cheered because their young pitching star provided them a positive example of how people should treat others who confess their mistakes and sincerely ask for forgiveness. Two men shaking hands and making their peace with each other. An entire city willing to forgive. A sport rooted in tradition and respect. For those few moments at least, perfection.