I confess that prayer hasn't been a big part of my life. My son rats me out to his confessor that we miss Mass on Sunday. It's not that I've lost faith in the One True Religion. I'm a just a pretty serious procrastinator unless I'm in the zone building a system. My grandmother would say that every act is a prayer; most of my work was a prayer. There were go-live days when I prayed a lot.
I got sucked into Little League one day when a woman called up and asked if I'd coach my son's team. I'd coached little league hockey while I was in graduate school and swore I'd never do it again. The kids were great. The parents made you miserable. But what could I say to the lady who was suggesting no coach, no baseball for your kid.
It's a frightening and helpless feeling when you get caught in a rip tide. You keep swimming and swimming but keep getting sucked in the wrong direction. Everyone who's had a bad dream like that may understand, too. This was Little League. Before long you're sucked helplessly in a direction you don't want to go... because you're doing it for the kids. That's when I met Lyndon.
Before you can play ball you have to fix up the fields. Ours were in really, seriously bad shape, especially by modern Phoenix area Little League standards where some of the leagues pay professional crews to manicure the fields. We didn't have enough money to hire a crew. When I heard how much the crew cost, I volunteered for the do-it-yourself alternative and showed up at the playground at my son's school (In the end it would have been less expensive and less painful to have personally forked over $10,000 for the crew in the beginning, but that's another story).
Even with the do-it-yourself option, some of the dad's got carried away. I looked up from raking dirt and there are some guys with a backhoe digging a trench to put in a sprinkler system. Later in the afternoon they're still working on the sprinklers. Old fishing boat deckhands live by the dictum "don't watch while someone else works" so I sauntered over and offered to help. We finished filling in the trench when the sun was low in the sky.
While we waited for the water to be turned on, I chatted with Lyndon who was leading the effort. He looked like a real worker, heavyset and muscular, sweating with his tool belt strapped to his waist. Call me Mako. I'm from Hawaii. We're serious about Little League there. What's the matter with you people (you aren't Japanese and don't know how to work). We had nothing. Compared to us you guys are rich, but you can't build a Little League field. Mako played baseball at Baylor and although he was now a deacon at the Baptist church down the street, he still hated Roger Clemens who played for Texas and taunted the Baylor players after he struck them out.
I didn't get to tell Mako about Uncle George playing poker with Babe Ruth. The moment of truth came and we turned on the water. Fabulous, wonderful we can now water the fields before games. Instead of weathering an Arizona dust storm, the kids could play baseball. Then the bad news. A puddle appears at third base. It got bigger... and bigger. Someone had driven a pickup near third and the weight of the truck had cracked the water pipe.
We dug out the pipe, fixed the break and tried again. More water. We needed a new part. Someone was dispatched to Home Depot to get it. We waited and waited. Night came and the lights went on. More bad news. The lights would only stay on until 9 pm. It was Sunday night and the only way we can stop the water is by turning off all the water to school. The principal is not going to be happy. If we don't fix this, the playground will be a lake tomorrow or the school will not have water, and it's way too late to call a plumber. The part comes and we try again. This is time consuming because someone has to run to the school and turn on the water. It doesn't work. About this time the lights go out. Mako has a vision. Oops, he didn't glue it right. Turn off the water. Glue it right. We hope. We are working under the headlights of Mako's pickup truck now, in a trench that smells like Boston harbor at low tide. His kid goes to a Christian school miles away. I'm terrified because my kid goes to school here and I'll have to face the principal in the morning. The principal was one of those wiry women who could humble you with a wag of a finger and wasn't shy about doing it. She'd have made a good nun.
This is our last chance. We wait a good while for the glue to seal the pipe. We're ready to try again. Mako stops everyone (which by now is just me and him). Let us pray. Standing over the trench, Mako bows his head and lifts his hands up in the darkness illuminated only by the lights from his pickup. "Dear Lord, I pray for your strength and courage upon us. Bless our work and give us a successful end. In Jesus name, I pray." I raised my hands, too, and prayed real hard along with Mako, even though he was Baptist. And then whispered "Dear God, save me from principal Murphy."
Mako headed for the school. He called me on his cellphone and told me to be ready. Here comes the water. I waited. It sounded like there was water in the pipe...... it was holding. We waited a decent interval, filled in the trench and went home.
Praise be to Jesus.
