It was the last little league game I ever coached. My son Charlie’s team, the Royals, was making our way through the post-season bracket in the 12-year-old division of West University Little League when we came up against one of our rivals, the A’s, on a bright Saturday afternoon in early May. While one of my lasting memories of the game itself was a bad call by the umpire, another memory—a more important one, a more durable one—followed.
We were tied, with one out late in the game, and had a runner on third when our hitter poked a lazy fly ball to left field. I was coaching third base, and our runner, William, stood nearby with a small lead off. William saw the ball was going to be caught in left field, and ran back to the bag to tag up, his foot squarely on third base, ready to run home as soon as the ball was caught. From where I was, I had a perfect view of the fielder in left and William on the base. Immediately after the catch, the fleet-footed William took off for home, scoring easily without even a play at the plate. Safe!
We were ahead now, or so it seemed until I heard the A’s manager yelling at the home plate umpire. The manager was sure William had left third base early before the catch. The umpire looked around not sure what to do. The manager then instructed his pitcher who now had the ball to throw to their third baseman who promptly stepped on third, at which time the ump, in my mind influenced by the other manager on a play he hadn’t clearly seen, called William out.
I was incensed, but kept my composure, asking the ump about what he’d actually seen. He said only that he’d now made the call and wasn’t changing it. I went to the other umpire and asked if he had a better view. He said it was the home plate umpire’s call to make. So the call stood. Three outs. Inning over. We went on to lose the game and our season was sadly over. Our team was naturally upset, but after the game, we all went over to congratulate the A’s, wishing them well as they continued on through the playoffs.
Bad calls are a part of baseball, and of course we had plenty of other chances to win which we didn’t take advantage of that day. Furthermore, we all have to come around the idea that losing isn’t just a part of sports, but a part of life, a big part actually. It happens.
However, the more resonant lesson I took from that last game came a few days later when another coach in our division told me he was there and thought the call against William was one of the worst calls he’d ever seen. Half, but only half-jokingly, he said, “I’d have lost my temper and probably been thrown out of the league.” But then he said the thing that stuck with me: “I don’t know how you kept your cool.”
Let it first be said, I know little league is for the kids, and a grown man charged with modeling good sportsmanship for them in a recreational baseball league shouldn’t flip out no matter what. But the fact was—I had been really upset about the call in the moment. The fact that someone noticed I showed at least a little poise under the circumstances felt good. It’s been something I return to when I get upset, not just over small things, but over more serious things, as well.
Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations:
When force of circumstance upsets your equanimity, lose no time in recovering your self-control. Do not remain out of tune longer than you can help.
It’s hard to lose when you’re deeply invested; when you’re convinced you’re right and fully persuaded someone else is wrong. Similarly, it can be challenging to act with magnaminity in victory, but both losing and winning with grace is part of modeling our faith. It’s natural to feel upset, even incensed sometimes when important things don’t go our way. Likewise, it’s often easy to fall into gloating when we win. But reclaiming our poise before we lose our cool in defeat or take up a haughty stance in triumph is something to which we should aspire. Especially, we who profess a Christ who chose and suffered what was considered a humiliating death, but then rose in victory, not to vanquish His enemies, but to embrace and save them.
God—Grace in victory. Poise in defeat. May it be so in me. Amen.
