#6 - Roar of the Crowd

by James Baker

***Editor’s note – gotta give a shout out to Dana Aaronson, my gracious Yankee benefactor, without whom this experience would not have been possible ***        

         

Two out in the top of the ninth, and our favorite foil – A-Rod – faces a two-strike count in Game 6 of the American League Championship Series against the New York Yankees.  Looking around at the frothing pack of pennant-starved Ranger fans, screaming so loudly the Ballpark had gone silent with noise, I was reminded of a different era in our organization (note the use of ‘our’, conspicuously absent during ‘their’ previous 37 abysmal seasons).  A time when I would sit in the outfield bleachers at the old Arlington Stadium with maybe 5,000 in attendance.  A time when no Ranger lead was safe, and we had the market cornered on starting pitchers that other clubs would have used for batting practice.

But this is a different generation of Rangers.  When the final pitch crossed the plate, bat still firmly in place on A-Rod’s shoulder, there was a brief hush in the mayhem while all 51,403 of my friends waited with heart-in-throat for the ump to determine our fate.  Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  Ginger ale showers on the mound.  Bear hugs with drunk guys that I’ll never see again, but in the moment, for whom I would give a kidney.  Ah, to finally be a winner.  Even if we lose every World Series game by ten runs, this night was splendid.  Absolutely splendid.

And yet.

And yet there seemed to be something missing.  While everyone else was still convulsing with elation, I sat back down, and tried to take it all in.  I wanted this moment to be something special.  Something transcendent and essential.  I needed for this to be more than just a playoff win for a long-suffering ball club.  I needed it to be satisfying.  As great as this moment was, it fell short.

In the days since, I wondered if any sort of celebration could measure up.  Was it possible to cheer on a victor for more than driving in runs and clutch pitching?  I mean if this experience left me wanting, was satisfaction in a singular event even possible?  Sure, my wedding day and births of my children have been visceral experiences that have given my life meaning and direction.  But those were more isolated affairs affecting only me and those close to me, rather than uproarious, cataclysmic events. 

And then I was reminded of my life eighteen years ago.  I was on a fast-track to nowhere; pretty much flunking out of college, living only for the next drunk fest and meaningless relationship – all the while having a sense of loneliness and failure that left me bitter and distraught.  If you knew me then, you would have been struck with the fact that there just wasn’t much to be struck with.  I was merely another insecure frat guy looking for purpose and recognition in all the empty places.  In spiritual, emotional, and psychological terms, I was the old Texas Rangers.

But on January 21, 1992 at 12:05am, I sat in bed facing a crossroads.  I knew God was calling me to him.  That much, I was sure.  What I didn’t know was whether I could measure up to whatever it was I was being called.  Because I had never measured up to anything before.  I had never seen anything through to completion, and I didn’t want to have some skin-deep conversion experience that would be just one more dead-end in a long list of spectacular disappointments.  Strange as it may seem, I knew that failing in this would shake my faith to a place from which I would never recover, even though I really had no faith to speak of.  Clutching my knees close to my chest, God put those fears to rest by letting me know that indeed I would not measure up.  But it didn’t matter.  I could either walk through the door into a world that promised nothing, but seemed hopeful, or remain in the darkness that was at least familiar.  I closed my eyes, and said something like, “God, I have no idea what I’m doing, or how to do it.  I don’t know what words I’m supposed to say.  But in as much as I know how, I give myself over to you.  I can’t imagine that I’m someone you could do much with – but screw it, I’m doing it anyway, whatever ‘it’ is.”

Reading scripture in the years since, the event has been put in perspective.

“…there is more joy in heaven over one lost sinner who repents and returns to God than over ninety-nine others who are righteous and haven’t strayed away!” – Luke 15:7

Strike three.  Deafening roar.  Fireworks.  Confetti.  A wild, raucous, piercing shriek of unadulterated pandemonium.  A celebration for the ages.  More importantly, one that matters.

It would have been nice to be in the stands at that moment.  Being on the field was even better.