Anyone who has known me since I was a kid can tell you one thing: I was a baseball nut. I not only collected baseball cards, I used them in my almost pathological obsession with a game I inherited from my brother, “dice baseball.” I not only watched Cubs games and followed the box scores, at the beginning of each season I would write out by hand all the rosters of all the major league teams, and then make up trades the Cubs could do in order to finally win that elusive World Series. To this day, chances are that you could say something like, “1976 Orioles 3rd baseman!” and I’ll be able to picture that 1976 Topps baseball card and say, “Doug DeCinces!” “1983 Royals relief pitcher!” “Dan Quisenberry!” …you get the idea…a bit obsessed.
Another thing about me as a kid was I was insanely hyperactive. So much so, that I’m convinced that when my parents saw that even though I was born in November, I could still be put into Kindergarten at the age of 4 (the cut-off date at that time was November 30th; nowadays it’s something like September 1st), they jumped at the chance. Consequently, I was always the youngest in my class. On top of that, I was already small for my age, so put me in a class of kids all pretty much a year older than me already, I was really small for my class. Even though I never fell behind academically, I think my small size did affect my ability to keep up in sports…in this case, baseball.
My “career” in youth baseball could be described in the same way Chicago Cubs baseball could be described for the better part of the past 100 years: pretty pathetic. It wasn’t that I was horrible, but I certainly wasn’t “the star.” And because I was virtually always was the smallest on the team, the little league coaches, and later high school coaches, would pretty much overlook me. On top of that, I always found myself on virtually the worst team in the league. I was pretty much a bench-warmer who played sporadically. Even in high school, when I got the “Coach’s Award” for my junior and senior years, we all know it’s pretty much getting an “E” for “Effort,” or being the girl forever described as “having a good personality.”
Needless to say, both my “career” in youth baseball and my life-long devotion to the Cubs have been one long lesson in humility (or humiliation). Even before I got into high school, though, I came across a Christian artist named Bob Bennett. In 1982 he came out with Matters of the Heart—to this day I still think it is one of the most thoughtful and beautiful albums I’ve ever heard. One of the songs on that album was a song entitled “A Song About Baseball.” Here is the youtube link:
And here are the lyrics:
A Song About Baseball: Bob Bennett
Saturdays on the baseball field I’d be afraid of the ball
Just another kid on camera day,
And the Angels still played in LA, I was smiling
In living black and white
Baseball cards and bubble gum,
I think there’s a hole in my glove
3 and 2, life and death
I was swinging with eyes closed, holding my breath,
I was dying, on my way to the bench
But none of it mattered after the game
When my father would find me and call out my name
A soft drink of snow-cone, a candy bar
A limousine ride in the family car
He loved me
No matter how I played, he loved me
No matter how I played
But none of it mattered after the game
When my father would find me and call out my name
Dreaming of glory the next time out
My father showed me what love was about
He loved me
No matter how I played, he loved me
No matter how I played
But none of it mattered after the game
When my father would find me and call out my name
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For anyone with a sensitive heart, it should be clear that “A Song About Baseball” is not simply a song about baseball—it really is a song about life: the disappointments we have, the inadequacies we feel, and the unconditional love God has for us, even after we strike out time and time again. And let’s face it, we strike out a lot in life: I never made it to the big leagues–heck, I got cut from the college team; I’ve work my butt off getting a PhD, only to find myself unemployed; I failed in marriage. And even if I succeeded in everything I tried, a hundred years from now, everything I “accomplished” would have been forgotten anyway.
So what’s the point to life, when it’s inevitable that for most of it we strike out and ride the bench? Well, the answer to that question is found in the lines that always (and I really do mean always) make me cry:
But none of it mattered after the game
When my father would find me and call out my name
Dreaming of glory the next time out
My father showed me what love was about
He loved me
No matter how I played, he loved me
No matter how I played
I don’t think there has ever been a time when I’ve listened to this song and haven’t teared up at this lines. Why? Because it’s not just about baseball; it’s not just about the love of a father; it’s an existential truth that lies at the heart of reality itself: we will always “dream of glory the next time out,” but the real glory that transforms us is the love that is there in the midst of our failures.
Incidentally, these lines remind me of the countless times my own dad would stop what he was doing to go play catch with me, because I was convinced that I would one day I’d pitch in Wrigley Field if only I practiced just a bit more, or the times we’d be driving home in that rusted out 1968 VW Bug after losing yet another game, me upset that I really wasn’t even given much of a chance to begin with…I mean really, sure, I was average—why did I have to sit the bench for half the game while the coach’s son who couldn’t stop a ground ball to save his life plays the whole game at shortstop? I have to admit, summer youth baseball wasn’t really all that fun—but none of it really mattered: it was summer, and there was always the pool to go to, or more dice-baseball, or perhaps dad would be my catcher and I could pitch in Wrigley Field, if only in my mind.
But truth be told, those summer youth leagues really serve as a microcosm of my life—and probably a whole lot more people’s lives: lots of disappointment and frustration in trying to excel in an endeavor that you love; but then the reassurance and calming support of a loving father that continually spoke into your heart, that your value as a person goes far beyond whatever might happen on the field, or whatever recognition you might or might not receive. So much of what we do in our lives really doesn’t matter…and that’s okay, for our Father will find us, call out our names, and welcome us home.
Wow! I have loved this song for years, but have never been able to find it. Bob’s acoustic folk-style recordings have honestly confronted the messy side of human existence over the years. But those who have discovered his depth, wit, honesty and musicianship consider him to be one of Christian music’s foremost songwriters. His classic tunes “Matters of the Heart,” “Man of the Tombs,” “A Song About Baseball,” and others reveal a songwriting proficiency unmatched among his peers.
Tonight I spoke with my 15 year old daughter, who is stressed out with end of school year projects and feels like a failure because she is not making all As – and a few other issues typical for a 15 year old daughter. I told her about this song – that no matter what the results of her efforts I love her the same. I am so thankful that I was able to find the lyrics and the song so that she could read and listen. Tonight she is going to bed with this message in her ears. And her problems do not seem so overwhelming.
Thank you very much for sharing this lyric and for this nice article.
Thank you for your comment. Bob Bennett certainly has been a major influence on my life, for sure. The whole album, “Matters of the Heart” is amazing. I also found “Songs from Bright Avenue” and “Small Graces” to be phenomenal too. He has the amazing ability to take the heart of the theological message of the Gospel and dress it in the clothes of everyday life.
Thanks again.
By the way, you can get “Matters of the Heart” on itunes.