Champion . . . or Chump?

One week ago, no one had heard of Christian Lopez, except for family members, some friends, and his girlfriend. Saturday, with one simple act, his national status leaped to folk hero – or phenomenal chump. Depends on who you ask.

All Lopez did was catch a homerun in Yankee Stadium. The homer happened to be hit by the Yankees’ Derek Jeter, and it just happened to be the 3,000^th hit of Jeter’s illustrious career.

Lopez could have held the ball in a death grip, waiting to see how many thousands of dollars he could squeeze out of it. Instead, he gave the ball back to Jeter, saying the Yankee captain should have it. In some minds, Lopez became a champion, exhibiting selfless character. But to others, he became a chump, a fool unwilling to capitalize on his moment of serendipity.

In the end, Lopez wasn’t left empty-handed. The Yankees rewarded the 23-year-old with a personal meeting with Jeter (shown in the Associated Press photo above), season tickets for the remainder of the year (including post-season, if the team qualifies), and bats, balls and jerseys signed by the future Hall of Famer. Not a bad reward for selflessness.

Amazingly enough, many people still chastised Lopez for his magnanimous act. It’s understandable, I suppose, in a time when it’s seems common practice to take advantage of others whenever possible. “Ya gotta look out fah numbah one,” as they say in New York City.

Even some sports talk show hosts jumped on the bandwagon, questioning Lopez’s sanity in surrendering the ball without the promise of anything in return.

This last part astounds me the most. Sports commentators pontificate ad nauseum about athletes and coaches that act in self-interest. But these same “experts” seem to believe for ordinary people to act out of greed is not only normal but expected.

So it’s okay to be greedy, as long as your income is below a certain level? What level is that? If Donald Trump or Bill Gates had caught the ball and held onto it, that would have been greedy, right? But because Lopez wasn’t greedy, he’s an idiot?

Fact is, greed is an equal opportunity vice, and no respecter of income levels. A well-known billionaire once was asked a revealing question: “How much is enough?” To which he purportedly replied, “Just a little bit more.”

Frankly, I find it refreshing to hear about someone who did the right thing, rather than trying to calculate what he could get simply for being in the right place at the right time. I guess you could say that for him, it was the Christian thing to do.

Childhood Baseball Memories

For the most part, I think most sports talk commentators are loud-mouthed, bombastic blowhards, barely more knowledgeable than me – which isn’t saying much. But one exception is ESPN Radio’s Colin Cowherd. I don’t concur with everything he says, but rather than rattling on about “I think…”, Cowherd actually does research and has data supporting his views, whether you agree or not.

Recently he was talking about a televised Major League Baseball game which included a quick glimpse of two little guys overwhelmed with glee when one caught a homerun ball. Scenes like this, Cowherd said, are what make baseball unique and special, despite its snail pace in a hyper-speed world.

His comments brought back my own boyhood experiences of going to ballgames. Living about 40 miles from New York City, a couple of times a year my father and I – usually with my friend, Mark, and his dad – would drive to see the Yankees in The Bronx or the Mets in Flushing. I vividly recall sitting in the reverse-facing backseat of my friend’s Rambler station wagon waving at drivers of other cars going by.

There was nothing like sitting in the box seats to the right of home plate, eating hotdogs and drinking ice-cold, watered-down Cokes (they’re actually more refreshing that way) while admiring my heroes – Mantle, Berra, Maris, Skowron (at Yankee games) or Ron Swoboda and Ed Kranepool (at Mets games) – as they knelt in the batter’s box or strode toward home plate.

For me, probably even more meaningful was the time spent with my dad. He was old-school – work hard, provide for the family – not overly talkative. We never went fishing or boating; he wasn’t the outdoors kind. Probably being wounded twice in World War II was enough outdoor action for him.

Dad was very mechanical, but after becoming convinced the mechanic-gene somehow had bypassed me, he left me to writing, reading and other pastimes.

Those times sitting in Yankee Stadium or Shea Stadium with my dad, however, were special. Although he wasn’t a big sports fan – by age 12 I easily knew more about the teams than he ever cared to learn – it was one way to indulge his son.

Our relationship wasn’t everything I might have wanted, but whether at a ballgame, watching him work on a car, tagging along with him at a National Guard exercise or whatever, Dad still managed to impart valuable principles to me: a solid work ethic, faithfulness, constancy, integrity. As it says in Proverbs 4:1, “Listen, my sons, to a father’s instruction; pay attention and gain understanding.” I did. One day I hope my own children and grandchildren will be able to say the same about me.

Hearkening Back to a Very Different Time

Summer’s long, steamy days fast approach, meaning only one thing: Baseball can temporarily resume its role as national pastime. NBA and NHL playoffs will have ended. College football will fade from public view until practices resume in August. College basketball won’t beckon our attention until October. That leaves “the boys of summer” – unless you’re big into NASCAR.

While baseball no longer reigns as my favorite sport, it has provided some of my most vivid memories. Growing up in New Jersey, twice a season I enjoyed riding into New York City’s Bronx Borough and striding into the shadows of the historic “House that Ruth Built.” I would usually go with my father, a friend and his dad, spending a day consuming lukewarm hotdogs, peanuts and watered-down Cokes, while watching my heroes – Mickey, Yogi, Whitey and others – lead the guys in pinstripes to victory.

I’ll always remember the day I went to Yankee Stadium in 1961 with my Little League team. Mantle and Roger Maris were chasing Babe Ruth’s sacred homerun record, and we saw both “the Mick” and Rog slam homers. Ford was the winning pitcher, and Luis Arroyo came in to save the victory. Yankee nirvana!

In those days baseball stars were revered. We didn’t have investigative reporters or Internet rumors recounting the Yankees’ late-night hijinks. I never knew Mickey often patrolled centerfield nursing a killer hangover. No, major leaguers were golden boys, virtual gods to adoring young fellows like me who would never master hitting a round ball with a round object square.

Those Yanks probably weren’t better or worse than players reviled today for their misdeeds, but it was a simpler, perhaps more naïve time. We read only news that was fit to print – not news that wasn’t.

As a nation – and a sporting culture – we’ve lost our innocence. Not that we ever really had it. But we thought we did. And there’s something sad about that.