Imperfect Game

There are 20 perfect games in the history of baseball. On Wednesday night, June 2nd, 2010, the 21st perfect game nearly came into existence less than a week after the 20th perfect game by Roy Halladay and within a month of the predecessing 19th by Dallas Braden. In any perfect game it's all or nothing. For my non baseball readers, that's 27 batters up (3 per inning x 9 innings of regular play) and 27 down. No walks, hits or batter's hit by a pitch. Constituting 9 frames of...that's right, perfection. With 8 and 2/3 of an inning under his belt, Armando Galarraga pitched to his, would be, last batter who promptly produced a ground ball right into first baseman Miguel Cabrera who quickly flipped it over from his position, between first and second, to Galarraga who had run to cover first. The play was text book and was executed with the precision that comes from years of experience. The batter was out by a long shot. However, first base umpire, Jim Joyce had called him 'safe'. No one could believe it. the faces of every player were absent of emotion, their thoughts off somewhere asking if their dream night had been turned into a nightmare. The call would quickly be disputed but even after Galarraga's manager had fired off his mouth at Joyce, the play remained as called. Galarraga's perfect evening had been robbed from him.

After the game, Joyce had the opportunity to view his call again and as was already partially confirmed in his mind, his call had in fact been wrong. Joyce left the park without showering, only offering an apology to Galarraga for his poor call before he departed. For those who do not understand, umpires are tough by nature, they have to be, they make poor calls all the time and they have to stick by their own mistakes just as they stand by their good calls. For every single call an umpire makes during a game there is someone who will be benefited and someone for whom the call will be detrimental.

There are few mistakes in the history of baseball as dismal as this one.

Joyce deserved to be booed for his call, he deserved to be hated by Detroit, a city starved for a winner. Galarraga would be perfectly entitled to be disgusted with the man for taking away what would have probably been the crown jewel of his career. But when Joyce arrived at the field on Thursday for the next game, he received laud. He was given encouragement. He was handed forgiveness. Even while some fans still hurting from the previous evening's erroneous giving booed and taunted. The man to whom the offense had been done walked with grace and integrity out to home plate to hand Joyce the lineup card and shake his hand. In the moment, Joyce, a stalwart of manliness had succumb to the preciousness of a tender mercy. His rugged, bulky face completed by a motorhead mustache produced a pair of tears that he quickly dispatched putting his thumb and index finger to his face and then wiping them carelessly on his black uniform. The mantra of Jimmy Dugen; "There's no crying in Baseball!" seemed distant in that honest moment. Noticing with care and acting with a seemingly lost integrity among sports players in this modern era, Galaragga patted Joyce on the back to which Joyce returned his gesture with an opposite handed pat on the shoulder.

While I'm sure both Galarraga and Joyce would prefer to have had yesterday's game end differently, there is something here far greater than perfection. Had yesterday's game ended as it was supposed to, both Joyce and Galaragga would have walked off the field, thankful but indifferent to each other. Last night, they left limping. Today, they demonstrated a beauty that in my opinion far exceeds the temporary glamor of perfection. the obtrusiveness of a botched call may have seemed devastating in the temporal but will go down in history as how brilliantly a man who played and a man who officiated the great game of baseball stood out among men.

Thanks for reading

Untitled

Will we all one day lift our voice in a chorus and sing away an era of pain, misfortune, hurt and disappointment as we shuffle together into a glorious new beginning? Will our tears of suffering that once streamed down our cheeks be renewed with tears of joy? Drunk with laughter, will every breath we manage to breathe disrobe a layer of memory tainted by imperfection? Will the violent process of refinement come to fruition so that we shine so bright? And will we even posses the fortitude to stand on that day or will we be so overcome by the multitudes of the voices straining, rejecting the filth of this world, throwing off the bonds of their addictions and and the snares of their minds. Will everything wrong be undone and unmade into unknowable goodness?

I hope it is so.

You're A Good Man Charlie Brown?

This Christmas season has been different. In the past I have easily been caught up in the emotion of the holiday. The concept of Emmanuel has always plucked at my heart strings. This year however, I have found myself completely void of that typical Christmas feeling. This year, Christmas was not about Jesus or Peace on earth, it wasn't about Presents or about spreading love. It was quiet. It came and went and now it's over. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I feel that there is a loss that comes with not recognizing the importance of Christmas. But, then again, it is too often marred by painful reminders of my disappointment with God, with my life and with people.
I wish for the all-to-familiar Christmas miracle. I want to be able to suddenly get it and be content with God's plan and purpose for my life. I hope for it every year, and every year, in turn, marches on with me feeling a little more disillusioned. And before you think I'm simply living for the height of the moment, rest assured, this is a constant struggle merely amplified by the "reason for the season".

To my chagrin, I feel I am becoming less respondent to the stimuli of my faith. What is more unfortunate is that I cling to the moral/spiritual code and accepted practice of my community because it is what I am accustomed to and also because it's basis would not allow me to put it away for sake of my dearest friends comforts.

I feel as though to declare this is to wear the black mark in my circle but more especially within my dating pursuits. To struggle and wrestle to the point of enmity with my faith (while on a polite christian social level is acceptable) it is of another matter on a deep personal level. Who wants to get close to someone who openly wrestles with God? This is obviously a familiar tune and I do digress, but my point is that I cannot lie about the state of my relationship with God. I cannot pretend that things are okay when I question the validity and purpose of worshiping God.

So, as a new year draws nigh. I hope God becomes real to me. Because I am tired. And with the advent of no more cussing (new years resolution #1,and yes, one of the clauses stipulates that usage of the Lord's name applied as exclamatory or with the addition of a cuss-word qualifies as a "cuss") I am likely to be more frustrated without an appropriate or(inappropriate) way to blow off steam.

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Cliff Lee

Why would we keep Cliff Lee in the dark?

This is the question that I've considered for the past 48 hours. What did we gain by not letting him know that we (the Philles) were trading him? The reason we traded Lee was to get prospects back after the blockbuster move with Halladay but, at what cost? After all, we sent more of our own prospects to Seattle with Lee? This whole deal seems dirty to me. Last summer our prospects were virtually untouchable and now it's practically a fire sale! So, we're supposed to believe that Ruben Amaro, Jr. made a decision to move Lee based on here say and conjecture? Bologna! I've never been a big ball club GM, but I can imagine that when you make a BIG decision you try to gather the facts and make an informed decision. All things considered (offense, bullpen, starters) it seems foolish to let one ace go when you could have had two. Maybe Hamels will come back and blow us away this season. I hope he does. But we're still putting all our money on Halladay to get the job done at this point.

At the end of all of this, we've left our world series ace out in the cold. I would like to think that he still love's this city, this club and the fans (I was one of the 46,000+ people chanting "Let's go Lee" during the first game of the NLDS). I would like to think that next year he'd consider our club and playing for us again. However, my hopes are dashed on the reality that Ruben Amaro, Jr. and the organization have created. There are a lot of reason's Ruben deserves kudos. This is not one of those. Cliff, I am sorry it ended this way. You're a stand up guy, a marvelous pitcher and a privilege to watch.

Seth

There's More Than One Way to Check for A Pulse

Maybe you can identify a time where you were in the kitchen and cutting so vigorously with a knife that you departed from known safe (if such a thing can be said about cutting) methods of choppery and have been willing to risk limb for the sake of uncleaving meat from bone. And perhaps, as fate would have it, you managed to cut your own flesh. A cutting accident typically leaves a slice of skin that you can't help but fondle. It's part of your body, still connected, but dead and void of sensation. Yet, if you're like me, you fixate on that rogue piece of flesh now disavowed to your body. You can't seem to subdue the desire to play with it, though it might cause discomfort. The subtlety of the minor laceration is that it reawakens you to the world and your own humanity. Likewise, you may chose to listen to Beethoven's crescendo during the 9th symphony; As the strings whisper in anticipation of the deluge soon to come and you only have seconds to recognize the melody before you're fully in the middle of it. From the utter-perfection of the tympani's, the race of the strings and the melodic dissonance of the french horn to the choral mastery of the college of vocalists. Few things can cause one to instantaneously begin crying, if they are not already adept, save this piece of music.

You see, that emotion that reminds us we're human is a mingling of joy and sorrow. I suppose the greatest problem in reconciling these ideas is first accepting that our human interpretation of Joy is wrong. What if Joy, was more a state of recognition than a state of being. Joy is either hearing/seeing/doing something that is unmistakeably RIGHT and the forgone conclusion that we live in a perpetual state of brokenness. We weep because we catch that glimpse of perfection and cherish it so much while we continue to trudge. But, just because it is fleeting, does not render it meaningless. Also, when we stare at our body's frailty and realize in the moment of physical pain that our bodies are on a road to impending ruin we feel sorrow for what should be and what we cannot avoid and what we some day most resolve to; death. I believe that in that moment you either say, "I am made to be eternal" or you say "this is the natural order of things". A third and, possibly, more holistic approach is to say "shit, I've cut myself" However, you may want to keep that dialogue internal if for no other reason than looking foolish.

Maybe I'm over-complicating life here but, I feel like life is turmoil marked in the everpassing moment by road signs of rightness. They don't exist to satisfy you, they exist to remind you of a destination.

thanks for reading,
seth

More frustrated Pilgrimage

A question I have wrestled with lately, and have given up on because I've heard no suitable explanation is; Why God is worthy of praise? You can tell me he did X,Y,Z but the simple fact is that it doesn't strike me like it strikes other people. I know I am flawed, I know I need to be saved, for those who know me on any level, this may come as no surprise. But why do I not feel inclined to worship? The concept of Christ's Holiness, sacrifice, etc. Are not hard for me to understand. Having these things be true to my "heart" is where the schism lies. My father has often implored me to read the word, that it speaks to you. When? How? I have never experienced this... Is this wishful thinking?

At some point, your reason and your spirituality go different ways. All sorts of Apologetics use reason in their argument, but typically from a pre-suppositional point of view (which makes their argument biased from the get-go).

This has been my frustration lately. Where, truth, reason and spirituality dwell in unity. Is this really possible? Will I wait on God in vain, eternally, hoping to "get it"?

(Please, no advice.)

Metamorphosis

I feel a transformation happening in me. It's not a good one, and I want to stop it but I feel powerless. Once I was a wonderful friend to people, was more self sacrificial and kind. Now, I feel tortured and unable to look beyond my own suffering (which, let's admit, pales in comparison to that of others I know). I loathe myself for feeling this way, for being content to come home and be alone, but these days I am so tired. I feel incapable of handling my own life and thus my hopes of figuring out what I want to do with me life, being a husband/father or just doing something extraordinary have withered... Dear readers, I am sorry my soul sounds so downcast and my words offer no encouragement. I am jealous for your joy, have you it.