WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM: Cheeseburger in Paradise

I recognized the name as soon as it appeared in the Inbox section of my emails. Wow! A blast from the past for sure. My mind raced back 34 years (yes, time flies) and I began to relive those moments. When I tell of all the things that happened during that brief time, some folks find it hard to believe. But anyone who has been where I was then will tell you, it can't be accurately described. The only way to understand is to experience it. And I did.

The year was 1984 and I was a college baseball player at Appalachian State on a championship team. As a result, we played in the first round of the playoffs, which in college baseball is called a Regional. Back then, six teams were in a regional.

We were sent to Mississippi State University. MSU was the center of the world as far as college baseball was concerned at the time. Legendary coach Ron Polk. Super duper stars like Will Clark and Rafael Palmiero were playing then. But most of all . . . the Left Field Lounge was in full force.

MSU fans were beyond fanatical. They lined up their pickup trucks and grills just beyond the left field fence and proceeded to have themselves an absolute blast. And it was all fun and games, unless you were the leftfielder for the opposing team.

And guess who would be playing left field for Appalachian State? Yes, yours truly. “Don't turn around and acknowledge them,” I was told. “If they think they're getting to you, they'll rag you even harder,” they said. I had no idea what I was in for. But to be honest, I wasn't scared. Just curious.

I had been a shortstop all my life but toward the end of that season, coach had two shortstops and felt like putting me in leftfield gave us the best chance to win. I was cool with that. And I'm glad now that it all worked out that way. Otherwise I would not have met Amos.

Our first game was against the University of New Orleans. I took a deep breath as I trotted from the first base dugout to my spot in leftfield. “Here we go,” I said to myself, “Don't let them get to you.”

But a funny thing happened when I arrived to face the massive crowd crammed in the area beyond the leftfield fence. They were glad to see me. They were pulling against New Orleans, which automatically made them fans of ASU. It was like a family reunion. They cheered like I had made the ESPN SportsCenter Play of the Day every time I caught a routine fly ball. I got hit two hits that game and you would have thought I was Babe Ruth based on the ovation I received when I got back to leftfield following my at bats. Between innings I spoke with them like they were family members. Several of the young ladies asked me if I had a girlfriend. The dreaded Left Field Lounge had become . . . a slice of Heaven on earth, in a sense.

A guy named Amos seemed to have the most to say to me, and it was all positive. He kept asking me how I liked my cheeseburgers. Eventually it dawned on me that he was inviting me to join him on the back of his pickup truck after the game. I couldn't go out there after our first game but I promised I would come eventually. And I let him know I liked my burgers with everything except onions.

Having lost 1-0 the first day, the next day was an elimination game and once again, since we weren't playing against MSU, the Left Field Lounge loved us. I took a hat to Amos. He later gave me a shirt. The crowd cheered every time I trotted out to left field. I waved a slightly embarrassed wave. We lost that game by one run as well but my friends didn't seem to care.

When I showed up at Amos' pickup truck an hour or so after the game, I got an ovation from the Left Field Lounge crowd. It was surreal. Amos fixed me two of the tastiest cheeseburgers I have ever eaten in my life. I sat on back of his truck and ragged the leftfielder who was playing against MSU that night, thankful yet again that it wasn't us playing against them. But even that leftfielder got invited to join them after the game for cheeseburgers and BBQ sandwiches. 

Many years later, I got an email from Amos. He was astonished to see online that the baseball coach at Gardner-Webb had the same name as the player he had served cheeseburgers to many years earlier. Is that you?, he wrote. Yes, it was, replied I. I was reminded again of my time in 1984 at the “Heaven on earth” Leftfield Lounge. A few weeks ago, he emailed me again to check and see how I was doing and to let me know he follows our team and was proud of some of our impressive victories from this season. He still has the hat I gave him. He has even invited me to accompany him on foreign mission trips in the future if I am able to go. I just might take him up on that.

Several verses in Scripture give us a glimpse of Heaven. John 14:3 says that Jesus has prepared a place there for us. Revelations 21:4 lets us know there will be no tears or sadness there (or one run losses). I Corinthians 2:9 tells us that we can't even imagine how wonderful it will be.

I thought of all this as I read Amos' latest email recently. And I decided that Luke 13:29 sounds pretty good, too. That's where it says that those in Heaven will come from every direction to take their place at the greatest feast ever. I'm looking forward to that, especially if there are pickup trucks and grills present. And I fully expect to chow down on a few more of Amos' cheeseburgers. No onions, please. 

 

WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM: No Need to Spew Your Fears Everywhere

     It was my junior year in high school. A warm, sunny day as I remember. It happened as I walked out of the cafeteria- with all my friends, peers, and classmates just having finished their lunch. Our high school cafeteria was a building on its own so everybody hung around outside in the quad area on nice days once they were done eating. I was one of the last ones to exit after lunch that fateful day, assuring that most of the school was there to witness the "event". Back to that in a minute.
     First a few words about fear. Everybody has a fear of something. Some people have lots of fears, be they irrational or otherwise. I, too, have my share of fears, though I will tell you that none of them disrupt my daily life or cause me undue anxiety. Here is a list of just some of the fears people have: Arachniphobia (the fear of spiders), Ophidiophobia (the fear of snakes), Acrophobia (the fear of heights), Agoraphobia (the fear of open spaces), Claustrophobia (the fear of closed spaces), Cynophobia (the fear of dogs), Trypophobia (the fear of holes), Alektorophobia (the fear of chickens), Gamophobia (the fear of commitment), Globophobia (the fear of balloons), Podophobia (the fear of feet), Catoptrophobia (the fear of mirrors), Scoleciphobia (the fear of worms), Kinemortophobia (the fear of zombies), and finally my two favorites- Phobophobia (the fear of fear- probably invented after President Roosevelt advised Americans that it was really the only thing we had to worry about) and Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia (the fear of long words).
     The event that took place that fateful day in 11th grade involved none of the above, but it may have contributed to an eventual phobia with which I battle to this day. It all started that day when four of us so-called cool baseball player guys decided to have a milk drinking contest at the lunch table. It evolved into a big deal as fellow students and even coaches and teachers began placing bets as to who would win. I convinced our baseball coach that no matter what, I would win. So he placed all his bets on me.
     Things started well. The wimpy first baseman stopped after five cartons of 8 ounce milk. Eventually, all that was left was chocolate milk but the three of us chugged on. The second baseman stopped at 8 cartons and slumped over in his chair. It came down to a head to head matchup between me and the pitcher. We were both stuck at 9 and doubled over in our chairs with our heads resting on the table as the ever increasing crowd loudly urged us onward. With every bit of energy and will power I had left, I reached for the last carton and downed it to a roar of approval from my coach and most of the junior class. (The losing pitcher was a senior).
     Money changed hands and back pats began raining down upon me. I remained at the table to recover for a few moments before deciding to head out, which made me pretty much the last person to leave. So when I exited the cafeteria door, everyone turned to applaud the victorious champion . . . but I didn't feel so good.
     Suddenly and without warning, I threw up in the courtyard with such violence and projection that my fellow students scattered in terror to avoid the ferocious liquid spray. A few seconds later, I exploded yet again, with equal velocity and volume. (Reminder that chocolate milk was involved). Everyone laughed hysterically as I slumped there in my misery. Everyone except my coach, who had to give the money back. One of the rules was: If you spew, you lose. Turns out three of us spewed, so the "wimp" who stopped at five ended up with the title and the money.
     I believe that was the beginning of my Emetophobia, the fear of throwing up. I can't stand to vomit. I'm scared of vomiting. I get angry when I vomit. The whole process terrifies me. Some people just go right ahead and vomit so they'll feel better. I'd rather be sick for three days and let it run its course than spend even one second staring into a toilet dreading the inevitable. Recently a major league pitcher threw up several times on and near the pitching mound during a game while thousands watched. I felt his pain.
     The Bible says in  Isaiah 41:10 (and a gazillion other places) that we are not to fear because God is with us, strengthening and upholding us. 2 Timothy 1:7 lets us know God has not given us a spirit of fear but rather a spirit of power and love and a sound mind.
     Tell that to Charlie Brown. In the famous Christmas special, Lucy diagnoses Charlie with Panophobia, the fear of everything. Maybe some of us are like Charlie Brown when God says we don't have to be. So Charlie (and everybody else), fear not because God is in control. Trust Him with all your heart. Oh, and while you're at it, go easy on the chocolate milk.

     

WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM: I'll Become Even More Undignified

     Think me not weird when I confess to you that at the age of 54, I still dance occasionally. Doesn't sound unusual until you learn that I dance mostly when I'm by myself- sometimes in my truck, sometimes in the shower, and even on my lawn mower. Yes I realize I march to the beat of my own drummer or in this case, dance to the beat of my own music. I am not ashamed. I am my own person. I am old enough that I've become comfortable with being who I am, which is a unique, unusual person to say the least.
     A dancing by myself event occurred recently and as mentioned above, took place while I was mowing the grass on my riding mower. Impossible, you might say, but it happened, says I. Some context is appropriate here.
     I was a senior in high school in the spring of 1982. I realized then that a significant period in my life was coming to a conclusion. I wanted to seize every moment. Our high school baseball team was on its way to a state championship, which we eventually won. Chemistry class was becoming increasingly more of a drudgery each day and I was "counting the costs" of how much effort I was willing to put into it. (Ended up with a B- despite having an A+ at the beginning of January- a direct result of Senioritis, which is a certifiable documented disease).
     At any rate, one of the things I remember most about Spring, 1982 is the music. How can you ever forget the songs on the radio from your senior year in high school? I can't. And one of those songs was "Freeze Frame" by the J. Geils Band. Every time it came on the radio, we went bananas. It has a beat that invites you to move. I realize this will not be popular with the most conservative of my friends and acquaintances, but this is as much a confession as it is a justification.
     I vividly remember one particular evening when my friend David and I were out and about the town in his parents' banana yellow, oversized Oldsmobile of some sort- along with three other friends in the backseat. He was driving and I was riding co-pilot when suddenly and without warning, Freeze Frame came on the radio. We sprung into action. I still don't know exactly how he did it, but he was able to successfully drive and at the same time while play most of the imaginary instruments. I took on the role of synthesizer keyboard player and off we went. There were various sorts of  left to right movements in time with the beat. There were drum rolls. There was bobbing and weaving. There were strange looks and mocking laughter from our passengers in the back seat. We sacrificed our dignity and risked our good names during those moments but we brought down the house, so to speak. And he didn't get pulled over by a cop.
     Freeze Frame rang out through my earphones recently during the aforementioned mowing of the grass in my yard- which fortunately is secluded and not in public view. So off I went. I rocked the synthesizer, I moved left and right to the beat, I banged the drums at appropriate moments. I nearly ran into the magnolia tree, but I raised the roof, if that's really such a thing. This was not the first time I had attempted to sing and dance while mowing. My wife quizzes me occasionally after such ventures, asking me "What kind of crazy stuff were you up to out there?" She then makes some type of comment about how foolish I look, which is an accurate observation on her part.
     2 Samuel 6:14-23 tells the story of King David dancing in the streets before God's people as the Ark of the Covenant returns to the city. David danced the dance of celebration, leaping and twirling in such a manner as to make himself look somewhat foolish, at least in the eyes of his wife. When she questioned his dignity, he replied, "I will become even more undignified in the future as I celebrate before the Lord." What? The Man After God's Own Heart is dancing, celebrating and shedding the reserved image that all men of dignity are expected to adhere to?
     I get it that dance moves can be vulgar and suggestive. I understand the concern when particular gyrations are offensive. But like most everything, when done in a way that God approves, dancing can be yet another expression of the Joy we have in Christ. I just hope it doesn't cause me to fall off my lawn mower anytime soon.