One of a Kind

As a teenager, I hated UCLA basketball. After all, they won all the time. From 1964 to 1975, the Bruins reigned as National Champions 10 years out of 12, including seven in a row. It seemed unfair UCLA could have players like Lew Alcindor (now known as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar) and Bill Walton, when nobody else did. But what UCLA had, most of all, was a one-of-a-kind coach named John Wooden.

Over his 27-year career at UCLA, Wooden posted an overall record of 620-147. Look up “dominant” in the dictionary and you’ll probably his photo alongside the definition. Despite remarkable on-court accomplishments, however, Wooden stood out for other reasons. He was a man of integrity, of principle, and of faith. With his passing June 4 at the age of 99, the world lost a remarkable individual.

Millions of words already have been said and written in homage to him, and I’m hardly one to write with authority about Wooden. I did meet him once in Columbus, Ohio at a sports awards program back in the late ‘70s. Already retired, he was still held in awe by everyone he encountered. He was humble, unassuming, quite unlike many celebrity coaches of today. Like the old E.F. Hutton commercials, whenever Wooden spoke, people knew they should listen.

After his beloved wife, Nellie, died in 1985, he never remarried. He never even dated. It’s said that Wooden, a native Midwesterner, had just accepted an offer to coach at UCLA when a phone call came to offer him a job to coach at Minnesota. Wooden declined the offer, holding to his UCLA commitment. Why? Because he had given his word.

Young men who played for Wooden at UCLA inevitably left his mentorship as better men, whether they advanced to the professional level or not.

Proverbs 11:3 says, “The integrity of the upright guides them, but the unfaithful are destroyed by their duplicity.” From all accounts, Coach Wooden was never accused of “duplicity.” In an age when double-mindedness seems prevalent, when principles rarely interfere with ambition, we need more people like John Wooden. By God’s grace, may it be so.

Imperfect Game, Perfect Response

The perfect game: a pitcher’s dream. Twenty-seven batters up, 27 batters down. No runs, no hits, no errors, no runners, no nothin’.

Perfect games don’t happen every day, although this season it’s starting to seem like they do. In Major League history, there have been 20 perfect games thrown – but two already are in the record books this year, and June 2 there almost was a third.

Detroit Tigers’ hurler Armando Galarraga had retired 26 Cleveland batters in a row and was just one out in the ninth inning from finalizing his own “perfecto.” The only problem was, umpire Jim Joyce’s eye was not as quick as the instant replay. In his view, the Indians’ Jason Donald was safe on a bang-bang play at first base; slow-motion videotape clearly showed both ball and Galarraga arriving a blink before Donald’s foot hit the bag.

As expected, many of Galarraga’s teammates responded in anger, but the pitcher only displayed a wry, incredulous smile. No hysterical tantrum, no irate outburst, just good-humored disbelief. Then he quickly recorded out No. 28, although only 27 counted.

Many argue it’s time baseball stepped into the 21st century with instant replay, but what stands out most is how both umpire and pitcher responded.

Joyce had sincerely believed he had made the correct call, but after viewing the replay admitted he had blown it. Confession. Galarraga, who delivered the starting lineup the next day to Joyce, slated to work behind home plate, was gracious in accepting the umpire’s apology. Forgiveness.

What a vivid, real-life demonstration of biblical admonitions to “confess your sins to each other” (James 5:16) and “…forgive men when they sin against you” (Matthew 6:14).

A missed call may have cost a winning pitcher his perfect game, but in its aftermath a greater victory was won.

What Changed Baseball?

For whatever reason, I vividly recall that in my final year of Little League baseball – also my last attempt at organized baseball, because I couldn’t hit my way out of a field of weeds – I batted .226 (seven hits in 31 at-bats), and every hit was a bunt. (I also got plunked by pitches several times, but my brief experience as a human baseball target is not the focus for this blog.)

I remember two solid hits, one deep down the leftfield line that went foul, and the other a hard grounder to the shortstop that was called an error when he bobbled the ball.

Why do I mention that? Because the other day a radio sports commentator bemoaned that in Major League baseball, you rarely see players bunt the fall. Pitchers occasionally bunt to advance base runners, but position players hardly ever bunt.

He also mentioned you never see players choking up on the bat so they can control the ball by smacking it just beyond the infielders’ reach. I remember watching Bobby Richardson, the Yankees’ second baseman in the ‘60s, choking up on the bat at least two inches. He certainly was not one of New York’s famed “Murderers’ Row” – his career high for homeruns was eight – but he did bat over .300 twice. And he knew how to bunt.

So why don’t today’s players bunt? The commentator said he thought it’s because modern ballplayers don’t consider it “manly.” I think it’s an even simpler reason: ESPN.

We’re all familiar with Chris Berman’s “back, back, back, GONE!” to describe homeruns. When did you ever hear Berman offer a similar description for a bunt? What’s he going to say, “dink, dink, dink, safe”?

The nuances of baseball have suffered as the spotlight has grown brighter on mammoth homers. Players don’t get paid millions for bunting, or capture endorsement contracts for pushing a baseball gently down the baseline.

As a Little Leaguer, I actually did bunt the ball into the outfield, over the head of the charging third baseman, but that was long before ESPN, or even YouTube. And I wasn’t on steroids!

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.

Where Would You Be Drafted?

Tomorrow night, the NFL will begin its annual right of passage for collegiate heroes who hope to trade their alma mater’s adulation for professional riches. Millions of fans will tune in to ESPN to hear Mel Kiper, Jr. (was Mel Kiper, Sr. a draft guru, too?), Todd McShay and others gush over the prowess of various prospects.

The NFL Draft has become so big, this year for the first time it’s opening on a Thursday during prime time and being extended through Friday and Saturday. If a two-day draft is good, a three-day draft should be great, right?

Besides who will be the top picks, other questions awaiting answers include: How high will Tim Tebow (“Tim Terrific”) be drafted? Which seemingly can’t-miss prospect will see his draft stock plummet? And who will be “Mr. Irrelevant,” the very last pick of the seven-round draft? Keep calm – soon all those questions will have proper answers!

But what if a national draft were conducted for your profession, whether it be sales, medicine, homemaking, business administration, clerical work, engineering, truck driving, accounting, teaching, mechanical trades, or whatever role you happen to fill? Where would you be drafted?

Based on performance – or potential – do you think you would be a top-round pick, maybe even one of the very first draft choices? Or would your name be called in a later round? Would it be called at all?

For most of us, playing in the NFL is not even a dream or a fantasy, much less a hope or a goal. But we can resolve to be the best we can be at whatever God has equipped and called us to do. “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:10).

Infidelity and Devotion

Sports – like all of life – is often a study in contrasts and contradictions. We witnessed a vivid example in yesterday’s closing round of The Masters.

The week started with tongues wagging about the return of Tiger Woods to the PGA golf circuit after his much-publicized violations of his marriage vows. How would Tiger perform on the biggest stage of all in the professional golf world? How would the spectators respond to the seemingly repentant superstar? Would Elin attend?

Each question was answered over the course of the tournament’s four days, but slowly – almost imperceptibly – another story emerged. Phil Mickelson, once known as the greatest golfer never to have won a major golf championship, made one phenomenal shot after another to snatch attention – and victory (his third at the Masters) – away from Tiger and other contenders.

After sinking his final shot for a birdie on the 18th hole, Mickelson’s poignant, tearful embrace of his wife, Amy, could not have been more fitting. Eleven months after being diagnosed with breast cancer, Amy has been fighting a battle even more fierce than the one her husband waged over the four days at Augusta National.

For sports purists, Tiger Woods’ 11-under par, fourth-place finish satisfied expectations, and Mickelson’s demonstration of golfing artistry – 16 under par – was a glowing addition to the Masters’ legend.

But the real story was the elevation of love over a sordid tale of lust. While the fate of Tiger and Elin’s marriage appears still in doubt, the devotion between Phil and Amy was obvious. He had prevailed in an epic battle, and all observers were hoping she would as well.

The Bible says, “Many a man claims to have unfailing love, but a faithful man who can find?” (Proverbs 20:6). On Sunday, I think we saw one donning the fabled green jacket.

Who Is 'the Greatest'?

Life used to be much simpler. We didn’t have to debate, “Who’s the greatest?” Muhammad Ali boldly told us: “I am the greatest!” Who were we to question that?

Alas, like all athletes, Ali’s prime years faded and no longer could he make such an outlandish declaration. So the debate is renewed, “Who is the greatest?” Not only in boxing, but in every sport: pro football, college football, baseball, basketball (college and pro), motor racing. Maybe bowling, snow skiing, or even curling?

Certainly such discussions can be entertaining. They give us something to talk about – as if we didn’t have enough already. But how can you realistically compare athletes from different eras? Whenever I see films of a roly-poly Babe Ruth rounding the bases after a homerun in the 1920s or ‘30s, I think, “No way he could have been as good as Albert Pujols, Alex Rodriguez or Joe Mauer.” But who knows?

In those days they traversed the countryside in trains. Sports venues then were hardly a shadow of what modern athletes enjoy. Nutrition and medical science certainly weren’t close to what they are now; the same with conditioning and strength training. Would a “buff” Babe be a superstar today?

This reality would apply to comparisons between Johnny Unitas, John Elway and Peyton Manning; or Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor with Kobe Bryant and Lebron James. How can you accurately evaluate how Jerry Lucas, who starred for Ohio State in the early 1960s, and Evan Turner, leaving one year early for the NBA after winning virtually every NCAA individual honor, would fare head to head?

So who really is the greatest? It’s a chicken-and-the-egg argument – no definitive answer or resolution. Only ardent, often dogmatic opinions; some well-reasoned, some not.

If each could say, “I did the best I could,” that’s all that truly matters. If they were the greatest of their time, isn’t that enough?