To My Boys: October 1, 2020
Good morning!
I know many of us are excited about the Heat being in the NBA finals, but can we please show a little love for our hometown Marlins as well? Yesterday, they played their first wildcard playoff game against the Chicago Cubs. Do you know what this means? It means we are winning the World Series! I need not remind you, the Marlins have gone to the playoffs twice in their 27-year history, both times as the wildcard, and both times ended up winning the World Series. So, mark it in the record books: the Miami Marlins are the 2020 World Series Champions.
I love baseball. Is there anything more American? They sometimes lump mom and apple pie in the list of things truly Americana, but, in my opinion, nothing says red, white, and blue more than baseball. I mean, there are moms all over the world, not only in the U.S. of A. and they have been there since the beginning of time. Apple pie is actually Dutch, or English, or maybe even Swedish, we don’t really know. The fact is, baseball is undeniably American.
I do confess though, for as much as I love the sport, I do have very bad memories of my short-lived baseball career.
Shortly after learning to walk, my father put me in t-ball. He claims that no one hit the ball farther. While most kids would swing the bat, hit the tee causing the ball to simply trickle to the ground which, in turn, would get the opposing team to race to home base like seniors heading to lunch on any given day (especially on churrasco days), I would strut to the tee, twirl the bat between my fingers, point to a spot in the outfield, and rip a line drive to that very spot. I was the baby sultan of swat, the little king of crash, the mini colossus of clout.
Then something happened. I think kindergarten got in the way and took up most of my time. I basically hung up the bat and cleats thinking that maybe my life needed another direction. Sometime later in middle school, I decided to give the great American pastime a second chance. My father took me to a youth baseball league at Glades Middle where I was put in what they called the Adam Division. Then the nightmare started.
I was terrible. I couldn’t hit a basketball if it was pitched underhanded by Sister Mary Carolyn, O.P. with an “estampita” of Santa Rita, patron saint of baseball, stapled to it. The coach would mercifully tell me to stand in the outfield only because youth baseball rules required you to play every player at least once. The coach would wait until our team was up by 37 runs to put me in, but at least I got my playing time. My teammates would squirm on the bench, roll their eyes, and groan whenever I ran out onto the field because they knew my presence in the lineup meant the other team had a chance to go up.
I remember one time, late in the season, I was up to bat. The pitcher decided to pitch from his knees, the catcher took off his glove and sat Indian-style behind the plate to field the ball, I took a swing (with my eyes closed) and hit a foul ball. The umpire shrieked in amazement, “you finally got a piece of one!”
About halfway through the season, I told my dad I was very frustrated. I had realized baseball was just not working out and I wanted to quit. He told me he understood I was frustrated and that it wasn’t easy, but I couldn’t quit because I had made a commitment to my team and to the coach. He told me that, while it was possibly true I was not that good and baseball was not really my thing, I had to stick it out until the end in order to at least fulfill my obligation. My dad explained that those obligations that bother and inconvenience us the most are oftentimes the ones that mean the most. He promised me I did not have to continue with baseball, that I didn’t have to play the next season, but I was going to finish this one.
So, that’s what I did. I stuck with it until the end, contributing little to nothing to my team when it came to fielding and batting, but fulfilled my obligation to them as a teammate. After that season, I never played baseball again. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sport. I’m a huge fan. I understand it and even coached it years ago. But, interestingly enough, it was my inability to play the game well, the frustration that came with it, along with the good advice of my father, that helped me realize there is a lot of good that can come from baseball. There’s a lot of good that can be learned from this great American pastime.
Auspice Maria,
Fr. Willie ‘87
BELEN JESUIT PREPARATORY SCHOOL
500 SW 127th Avenue, Miami, FL 33184
phone: 305.223.8600 | fax: 305.227.2565 | email: webmaster@belenjesuit.org
500 SW 127th Avenue, Miami, FL 33184
phone: 305.223.8600 | fax: 305.227.2565 | email: webmaster@belenjesuit.org
Belen Jesuit Preparatory School was founded in 1854 in Havana, Cuba by Queen Isabel II of Spain. The task of educating students was assigned to the priests and brothers of the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits), whose teaching tradition is synonymous with academic excellence and spiritual discipline. In 1961, the new political regime of Cuba confiscated the School property and expelled the Jesuit faculty. The School was re-established in Miami the same year, and over the next decade, continued to grow. Today, Belen Jesuit sits on a 30-acre site in western Dade County, only minutes away from downtown Miami.