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God and the Brooklyn Dodgersby Peter Mikuliak illustration by Carol Morris Epiphanies are given to us suddenly and without warning, but never in an overwhelming manner. Even as children, God encounters us in ways that speak to us precisely at that moment in our life. Our task is to be open to that love.---------
When I was a kid, I was a fan of the Brooklyn Dodgers. And to say that I loved them would be an understatement. When baseball season came around, I would eat, drink, sleep and breathe the Brooklyn Dodgers. I wore my royal-blue cap with its famous, stylized "B" to school, and woe to the kid who dared to say anything disrespectful. I hounded my mother until she sewed their logo on the t-shirts I wore to play sandlot baseball. Today the mere mention of their names brings a far-away expression to my face. Duke Snider. Pee Wee Reese. Johnny Podres. Carl Furillo. Roy Campanella. Gil Hodges. Junior Gilliam. Carl Erskine. Big Don Newcombe. Clem Labine. Sandy Amoros. George Shotgun Shuba. And my most beloved hero of them all, the great, the sublime, the one-and-only man himself, Jackie Robinson. Of course, there was no way that I could have imagined the heartbreak that was to come in a few short years. The announcement that the Dodgers were being moved out of Brooklyn cast a pall over my life from which I have not yet fully recovered. Maybe that's why it has been so difficult for me to become emotionally involved in anything so deeply again. My trust was betrayed. Justice was outraged. Even now I still don't trust adults. True, my dream of playing Third Base for them somehow survives. But today, when contemplating the dawn of a new millennium, I continue to rage against the three arch-fiends of our century: Stalin, Hitler, and Walter O'Malley. To a kid who was a Brooklyn Dodger fan in the 1950's, however, most everything seemed to be well with the world. One night, my parents thought I was asleep. But I was under the covers listening to a ball game with the old tube radio turned down low. It is late in the game, and the Dodgers are in trouble. They are down by two runs. They have two men on base, with two outs. Rapid Robin Roberts is pitching for the Phillies, and he is tough. This might be the Dodgers' last chance to rally. Pee Wee Reese steps up to the plate. Clearly, this is an emergency. But how can a nine-year old kid help his team? Quickly, I start to pray. "Dear God, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you please help Pee Wee get a hit? Please? Help Pee Wee get a hit... Help Pee Wee get a hit..." I'm praying as hard as I can. A few pitches go by while I continue my prayer, breathing only when absolutely necessary. Suddenly Pee Wee swings and... Pop-up! Oh no... Easy out! But I won't give in to despair. I won't lose my faith. Although I do alter the terms of my prayer, I continue to pray even more fervently. "Come on, God! Make him drop the ball... Make him drop the ball..." I can still hear the radio voice of Red Barber, profound in wisdom, call the play: [Speaking in measured tones, the crowd audible in the background] "The runners are running... He's under it... He's waiting... He's waiting... He... [Shouting now, the crowd going berserk] "He drops the ball! He drops the ball! Two runs are in, Reese is on second base, and we've got a tie ball game!" I am speechless. God did it! Wide-eyed, I start yelling until my parents come running into the room, wondering what in the world is going on. As the voice of Red Barber comes back on, I motion dramatically for all of us to remain silent. So help me, this is exactly what the Old Redhead said. [Crowd roaring, Red is still excited:] "Fans, it looked like a big, invisible hand just reached down out of the sky and pulled that ball out of his mitt.!" I almost died. You know, I always suspected that God was a Brooklyn Dodger fan. But I never had conclusive proof until that game.
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