Tag: sports

Watching Kirk Gibson Hit the Game Winning Home Run in the 1988 World Series

Published on by geriatric pilgrim1 Comment

~

The first thing I hear when I turn on the 

old motel room’s boxy television 

sounds like an ocean’s roar: the huge crowd at 

a World Series game on their feet, cheering. 

Bottom of the ninth. The Dodgers trail the 

Athletics 4 to 3. Two outs. Dodgers 

have a man on first. The excitement is 

for Kirk Gibson, their star, who’s coming from

the dugout to pinch hit. The announcer 

says no one thought Gibson could play because 

of a severely strained hamstring in one 

leg and a bad knee in the other. He 

hobbles to the plate like a wounded duck.

Pitching for Oakland, Dennis Eckersley. 

Tall, slender, like some snake, he undulates,

and uncoils to throw two strikes past Gibson, 

whose every movement appears to hurt. 

Then Gibson somehow hits a couple of 

foul balls, sandwiched between Eckersley’s three

balls outside the strike zone. Count is three and 

two. Next pitch. Gibson reaches over the

plate and casually swipes at the ball. 

It soars over the right field fence. Gibson 

limps around the bases, pumping his fist 

to the deafening roar of the crowd while

announcers hail his gritty performance.

~

I hear my daughter’s quiet voice behind

me. I thought she was asleep. I turn to 

see her lying on the bed: her sunken 

eyes, scarlet bandanna, matching socks. Face 

white with pain. Thin fingers clench. Voice soft yet

determined as she talks to my wife: “I

 know this cancer might—probably will—kill 

me, but hopefully not for years. I need 

to make the most of the time I’ve got left.”

~

I look back at the TV as tiny

men jump up and down like sand fleas, patting 

one another on the back. Talking heads 

babble about courage. The crowd roars. I 

am drowning in a tsunami of rage. 

~ ~

Coach Bale

Published on by geriatric pilgrim6 Comments

°°

In those days, 

while I went to church each Sunday, my religion was basketball.

I worshipped Fridays in the high school gym, my saints the Eagles’ starting five. 

°

As aspirant, I tacked a round Quaker Oats box on a wall 

and rolled a pair of socks into a ball. 

°

And when I received a rubber Voit and Dad put up a hoop,

I loved the feeling of release, the sense of my soul’s rising from the driveway, 

the “swish” that said, “My son, I am well pleased.”

°

My god became eighth-grade coach Bale, who baptized 

me with sweat, shame, and submission.  

°

Lap after lap, disciples ran around the gym until we thought we’d puke. 

We heaved leather ten-pound balls, ran three-man weaves, learned to pivot

and set picks, while Coach Bale, arms across his barrel chest, thundered, 

“Move, you sissies! Move!”

°

The joy when learning I’d made the team

soon switched to fear when Coach Bale turned his wrath on me: 

“Hey, kid, you waddle like a wounded duck. Run!”

°

I started to jump rope at home, do sit-ups, push-ups, chin-ups, 

but nothing seemed to rectify my offenses.

“I said go here after you pass the ball,

not there, dummy! Clean out your ears!” 

I added running to my day, lost ten pounds. 

°

And lo, I made the starting five.

Sometimes I starred; sometimes I stunk.

If I scored early, blocked a shot, no one could stop me; 

if I threw the ball away or dribbled off my foot, 

fear of Coach Bale’s wrath multiplied my sins.

°

 Still, by the season’s end, he’d stopped his yelling at me; 

but neither did I hear his praise—no blessing for having worked my ass off.

Which made me want to work the harder.

°

The next four years—from freshman ball to junior squad to bench warmer to starting five— 

it was Coach Bale and not my high school coaches

who inspired me to dive for loose balls, outjump other guys.

Although I still played inconsistently, my passion helped our team to win.

°

After a game, when asked to sign a program, 

I realized I’d become the saint I used to glorify. 

And when a junior high kid told me Coach Bale had used me 

as an example of how hard work leads to success, 

I knew the blessing I’d so craved had been bestowed.

°

I also knew I didn’t give a shit.

The years of sweat and shame and anger had defiled the sport I’d once so loved. 

After our final game, I filched a pack of my father’s cigarettes,

and taught myself to blow smoke rings.

°

Four years later, home from college, I ran into Coach Bale.

Shorter than I remembered, his jowls hung like uncooked dough.

His handshake weak, his clothes reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.

He slurred his words as he preached his gospel of sweat and tears.

I said I needed to be somewhere else.

°

Oh, how powerless our gods become when we have lost our faith! 

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