“It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” – Yogi Berra
So it was the top of the seventh and we were down by 8 runs.
“There are some days you just shouldn’t play baseball,” I said to the manager’s wife who was sitting next to me on the well worn green bleachers. We were sitting very still, trying hard not to get splinters. That, in and of itself, was going to be a challenge.
Today was one of those days.
The game started out rough. The kid who was pitching for us couldn’t throw a strike. Nope. Not a single one. After not too much time and without a single hit, the other team had a run on the board. There were no outs and the bases were loaded. The manager slowly walked out to the mound, his eyes fixed on the tops of his shoes. He took the ball, patted his player on the back and motioned to the good-looking young man standing at third. (Never trust a mother to be objective.)
It was here that we entered a good news/bad news situation. The good news was, sonny boy was throwing strikes. The bad news was that all of a sudden the team went into a sort of baseball amnesia and forgot how to field. And catch. And throw. This was not good. At the end of the first inning we were down 5-0. It was going to be a long night.
“No worries,” we lied as the kids came off the field. “Time to hit.”
Except we didn’t.
Sonny boy pitched for a few innings. It was more of the same. They scored. We did not. This was not looking good.
By the time the seventh inning rolled around, we managed to scrape together 2 runs. However, while our boys were scraping and clawing their way to those two measly little runs, the boys in green put another 6 runs on the board. It was our last at bat. The first two guys made outs without much fanfare. The third kid had two strikes on him. Mrs. Manager stood up and readied herself to collect the uniforms. The season was over.
And then something happened. With two strikes on him, the kid made contact.
Big deal, you might say. So he got a hit. One lousy hit. I mean, everyone gets a hit now and then. The odds are if you hang in there long enough, your bat is bound to find the ball eventually. It’s still only one hit. What’s the big deal?
The big deal is this. Sometimes, when things seem hopeless, all it takes is one action, one seemingly small, meaningless action that opens the door to another possibility. When things are at their darkest, when you are sure that you’re at the end of the road, resist the temptation to pack up the uniforms and go home. Look for contact.
That one little hit was followed by another. And another and another and maybe there was a walk or two in there too, but you get the idea. With two outs and two strikes on the final batter of the game, the very absolutely last chance batter of the game, something changed. Call it luck. Call it kismet. Call it karma. Call it whatever you want to call it, but all of a sudden the clouds parted, the angels began to sing and we began a comeback. (OK, so I made up the part about the clouds and the angels.)
Mrs. Manager sat down. The uniform collection would have to wait until another day. We were not going home tonight. After the last pitch was thrown, the last out recorded, eleven runs had scored. Our left for dead team had won, 13 – 11.
It was the most amazing comeback anyone could remember.
Apparently, Yogi Berra knew what he was talking about.