Love is a Verb

"Love is a verb." One of my friends made that comment in response to my last post. I believe that was the case with my dad, and I want to share a quick story to illustrate his love for me in action.

First, a little background. As I wrote, my dad was a fine and decent man. He treated others fairly and quietly lived his Faith. He wasn't the type that went around quoting Bible verses--he simply read his Bible and tried to follow his Lord in the way he lived his life. He never "pushed" his beliefs on me or anyone else. But I could walk by his bedroom any night at bedtime and see him on his knees praying. His Faith was long on walk and short on talk. Most Christians could learn something from that.

When he died, a neighbor told me "Your daddy was a good man. I never saw him get mad or even cuss."

I'd seen him get mad. But I'd never heard him curse either. Except once. And what he said really wasn't a curse as I define the term.

I was fifteen years old and the top pitcher on a city-league baseball team. My dad was an assistant coach. I was in my baseball prime, and I had a fastball that not many could touch in our small town.

One sultry Alabama night we were undefeated and playing a team that wasn't very good. I was on the mound, and headed to Florida with a youth group from my church as soon as the game was over. We scored 15 runs in the first two innings. All I needed was nine more outs for the game to be "official" by the "mercy rule." I was on cruise control. Those guys couldn't have hit me that night with a tennis racket, let alone a baseball bat. They hadn't even had a runner reach first base.

As I mentioned, it was a hot, humid Alabama night. A slight breeze began to blow, and jagged lighting appeared way off in the southeastern sky--a summer thunderstorm was headed our way.

The other team devised a strategy. They would stall the game. If the storm arrived before we completed five innings, the game would not be official and would have to be replayed the next day. That would mean no trip to the beach for me. I would have to stay home and play. That was one of the life-lessons my dad taught me--when others are counting on you, you don't let them down.

The other team's strategy was simple. Each batter would take his sweet time stepping into the batters box--extra practice swings, retieing his shoes, etc. Once in the box, they waited until I started my wind up, called "time out,' and stepped out.

This was illegal. I was getting angry. They were laughing, really yucking it up. Their fans were laughing. Even the umpire was enjoying it.

After the second batter, I yelled at the umpire. "Make them get in the box!"

He stepped out in front of the plate and wagged his finger at me. "You shut up and pitch. I'm calling this game. One more word from you and you're out of here."

I tried to throw the next pitch. In the middle of my wind up, the batter called time and stepped out.

My dad called time and walked out to the mound. This had never happened before. If I needed a visit, it was always the head coach who came out.

"You OK?"

"Yes sir."

"Ok. Just keep your cool and throw strikes."

Then he motioned for the umpire to come to the mound.

"You going to call this game right and make them kids stop stalling and get in the batter's box?"

"No. They can call time out. And if I get any more lip from your pitcher or he throws a pitch after I call 'time' then I'm going to eject him."

My dad paused for a second. He looked down then looked the umpire directly in the eyes. "Then I guess I'm going to have to whip your ass."

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. To say the umpire was shocked would be a greater understatement.

"Hold up now," he said. "No need for that. I think I can speed things up a little. Let's all just calm down here."

My dad walked back to the dugout. Nine strikeouts and fifteen minutes later, I was on my way to Florida.

If that wasn't love, I don't know what is.