
(Today is Tuesday, August 8, 2023 and my post is a day late. But the tardy posting is intentional, for reasons which will become apparent a few paragraphs down.)
Floating out there in the world of “quotes I remember, but not who said it” there’s one that goes something like this: Better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.
I spent 30 seconds on Google to try to determine to who said it and found it attributed to Mark Twain, Abraham Lincoln and the Biblical book of Proverbs. It doesn’t matter. The truth of the statement works.
But, as I write these posts from week to week, I’m confident I’ve been removing all doubt as to my intellect for quite some time.
As much as I was questioning the legitimacy of some of the claims in the Bible, it was the stories in the Bible that helped me stick around in the Christian1 faith. I understand this is circular reasoning, and it’s why I’ve referred to it as “silly.”
But, alas, there was one story in particular which stood out.
It was the conversion of Saul to the Apostle Paul. This guy who had been killing Christians (in the name of God) switched teams and died willingly as a servant of Jesus Christ insisting to the point of decapitation that Jesus was God.
In the years I was contemplating these things, my country was recovering from the Twin Tower attacks on 9-11. We were still searching for Osama Bin Laden. Imagine if Bin Laden had suddenly repented of his ways and became a member of the American CIA, championing everything the United States stood for. It would have taken a miracle for that to happen. This is how I understood: Saul —> Apostle Paul.
If Paul could believe in the story of Christ and his resurrection, then I could believe in a God that brought Jesus back to life.
I understand I might have fallen hook, line and sinker for the desired result of the author of the story. Still, it was the reason I continued to believe in God. At least for a while … until something happened that made the fishing gear superfluous.
On August 8, 2003, I composed an email about how my understanding of Paul’s conversion had led to a newfound basis for my faith. I sent it to 5 people - my father, my brother, my friend Ray, my friend Brian, and another friend and mentor, Randall. After composing the email I turned off my computer, donned my Red Sox jersey and hat and left to meet my parents and wife at Fenway Park. It was the first year we fans were able to sit in seats on the Green Monster, the famed left field wall at Boston’s Fenway Park. Months earlier I’d awoke before dawn to wait in line and purchase the tickets for the game.
I was beyond excited.
I was a die-hard Red Sox fan. At the time they hadn’t won a World Series in 85 years and we fans felt 2003 might be the year2. The bird’s eye view in the Monster Seats was still a big deal then. I loved going to see the team play, and over the years as I watched home run balls land softly in the netting above the wall, I thought about how cool it would be if people could sit up there. Finally, as of 2003 we could.
Like so many others my age, I fell in love with the Red Sox in 1986 when they were “this close” to winning the World Series.
Like New England boys everywhere, I dreamed of playing for them.
The problem was, I had a hard time catching a baseball when it mattered and sometimes when it didn’t. Most notably, in college, when I was fielding as our team took batting practice before a game, I lost a lazy fly ball when it drifted between the sun and my eyeballs. When it came down it bounced off my face, destroying my nose3.
Blood everywhere.
Spoiler alert: I would never be drafted by the Red Sox to catch fly balls in the outfield of Fenway Park. I eventually figured this out, and even stopped bringing my glove when I went to watch games in hopes of a ball coming my way.
It wasn’t happening.
Our seats on on the “Monstah” that day in August were deep in left/center field. It was a gorgeous view in somewhat overcast weather at Fenway. We were enjoying our over priced (and over rated) Fenway Franks in the early innings when Nomar Garciaparra hit a solo home run. Other than that, it was somewhat of a ho-hum game during the dog days of summer; the kind of game no one remembers. I don’t think there’s a player who wore a uniform that day who remembers it.
But I do.
So do my wife and parents.
In the 6th inning Red Sox catcher Doug Mirabelli came to the plate. Mirabelli was the backup catcher for the Red Sox. He probably wouldn’t have even been on the team except for his superpower - the ability to catch Tim Wakefield’s knuckleball. It was why the Red Sox accepted his limited offensive abilities as compared to other catchers who would have been available. Mirabelli was known for his talent with a catcher’s mitt, not his hitting.
But as they say, even a blind squirrel finds a nut from time to time.
(How much more important was his glove than his bat? Check out this story about the time he got a police escort from the airport to Fenway just in time to take on the Yankees.)
Mirabelli swung at a pitch from Baltimore pitcher Rick Helling and made good contact. Actually, he made great contact. The ball took off, flying high and far. It was one of those no-doubter home runs which some people might have said never landed. Except, it did land. I was there.
I mean, I was there.
As the ball flew through the air, my mother screamed, “Jeff! It’s coming right at you!” It says something that she could tell it was coming right for me, because she was sitting right next to me, and might have considered that it was coming right towards her. You know, within her reach anyways.
Here’s where the silliness begins…
Time seemed to slow down. In disbelief, I had a little argument with her. “No, it’s not.” I said.
“Yes it is!” she replied, more animated this time.
In my two-decades of going to Red Sox games I’d never even been close to a foul-ball hit in my direction, let alone a home run. Thoughts blew through my mind at a ridiculous speed.
Seriously? The ball is coming towards me? Why? I don’t have my glove, and I’ll probably miss it anyways. But…wait…
As I watched the ball, dumbfounded, I realized she was right. It was coming right towards me. Not a little to my left. Not a little to my right. It was coming directly at me and my reconstructed nose.
The adrenaline of the moment saturated and overpowered my fear of failure. I reached out - barehanded - and snatched the ball out of the air.
No bobble.
Nose secure and in one solid piece.
I was elated. I high-fived everyone within arm’s reach. You’d be amazed how many people are within arm’s reach when you catch a home run ball. I think I bruised my mother’s hand.
I sat down and looked at the ball. As I did, a thought occurred to me.
The email…
I looked at my dad, who was still reveling in the moment with me.
”Hey…did you get my email about why I believe in God?”
He looked at me, smiled knowingly and gave a slight nod of his head. “I did.”
He knew what I was thinking.
On the day I made an official statement that I believe in God, a home run ball fell into my hands at Fenway Park.
It was the place I’d dreamed of playing. It was the team I’d dreamed about playing for. It was the wall I’d always wanted to sit upon. I couldn’t shake the thought that it was more than a coincidence. A lot went into the moment4.
It took some time for the adrenaline of the moment to pass. As I sat through the rest of the game (which the Red Sox would go on to lose in convincing fashion), I tried to bring myself back to reality.
“Don’t be silly.” I told myself. “Doug Mirabelli hit the ball. Not God.” I thought about the real problems in the world God should have been working on rather than sending a baseball my way.
But I couldn’t shake it. It’s a feeling that would never leave me. I still remember the emotion of the moment.
I always struggle when trying to explain the event to people. My words fail, because it wasn’t just a home run ball to me. I also felt kind of dumb for why the day was so important to me. But I came to an understanding which made me ok with the awkwardness.
That moment wasn’t about anyone but me.
Decisions about faith are personal. They’re between a person and God…or no god. Where I once would have used this story to convince people of my way of understanding the world, the nature of what I experienced reminds me I don’t have to do that.
Perhaps I shouldn’t do that.
Today is August 8, 2023. It’s the 20 year anniversary of my mystical experience on the Green Monster at Fenway Park. That day wasn’t the end of a faith crisis. It was the beginning of life journey. The timing of the events sparked a curiosity about the way the universe, and perhaps God, might work. I went back to my Bible with more curiosity than ever.
For me, there’s a different kind of freedom - one with out pressure - in not having to be sure of something.
It’s been two decades of learning new ways to understand the Bible and the stories within. I deconstruct what I knew, and reconstruct a new, more meaningful understanding moving forward. Sometimes this has resulted in greater thoughts of doubt. In those times, I have that dumb baseball staring at me, the smudge where the bat came in contact with the ball in the shape of a sideways smirk, serving as the one reminder that there might be a divine interaction in my life.
God only knows.
Next up: One day 18-plus years later, at a time I never expected and in a way I wouldn’t have predicted, this story continued to grow. Red Sox World Series Champion, Keith Foulke, is added to the character mix.
Here it is.
Although, it’s getting harder and harder for me to define what, exactly, “Christian” means. There are a lot of opinions about this, and some have told me I no longer fit the bill. Others have recognized that in themselves and jettisoned the descriptor “Christian” from how they describe themselves. I haven’t done that.
It wasn’t. They tore our hearts out again - actually, Grady Little tore our hearts out again - and lost to the Yankees in the playoffs. They’d finally win in 2004.
Later that summer I’d have reconstructive surgery. The doctor told me it was one of the most devastating injuries he’d ever operated on.
Currently, I have a manuscript of about 60,000 words dedicated to a book about just went in to creating the moment. I fear one blog post can’t capture the experience adequately.