A Late Christmas Musing

I know this is late--not even time for Dia de Los Reyes, but it's another make-up, one that has actually taken me quite a while to complete.  And for the record, I'm still not happy, but I guess it's good enough for now.  I also warn you that it is highly cheesy and religious, but it's still a part of me.

(Make-up for December 24, 2013)

            When my family went to visit my parents’ house on Christmas afternoon this year, I found myself enjoying a (rare) quiet moment in the front of the tree with my dad.  All the kids (our five and Marc and Liz’s four) were zooming under Grandma’s apron strings or blasting each other to smithereens on the Wii.  Dad reflected for a while then asked about past Christmas seasons that stood out in my mind.  I’ve shared some of these on my blog already, but I wanted to save this one for Christmas Eve.

Call me sentimental (and you might get smacked), but probably the most meaningful Christmas Eve was the second one I celebrated in Spain as a missionary.

            I was in Granada, proselyting in the Albaycín, right at the base of the Alhambra.  (From one of the towers, you could spit on our apartment.)  The last day of my mission loomed just over two weeks away: January 3, 1998.  My feelings about going home were mixed. I was ready to move on with my life, but I didn’t want to give up my time serving the Lord.  It had been two years since I had been a part of the world.  I was scheduled to start school at BYU in the spring.  Would I even remember how to function in college let alone life?

            On Wednesday the 24^th, our whole district (six of us) had been invited for a Christmas Eve luncheon at a church member’s home on the other side of the city.  This kind grandmother wasn’t in any position to host us, but we went anyway so as not to offend her.  Lunch was simple, but satisfying—not a Christmas feast, but good nonetheless: a thick caldo (broth) and some fresh bread.  We left with our pockets full of cheap, stale turrones, mantecados, and polvorones—which we promptly gave away to some neighborhood kids.  I even wore a Santa hat that I had picked up somewhere (I think someone mailed it to me.) as we visited and caroled and soaked up the spirit of the season.

            On the walk home, there was an underpass that went under the freeway around the city, which was meant for pedestrians only.  Part of the long, narrow path was fenced on both sides with chain link, but most people could walk side by side with barely enough room to not knock shoulders.  However, we had a problem as we filed along in the chilly afternoon.  Two teenage hoodlums on a motoscooter were zooming down the sidewalk toward us, weaving, laughing, shouting, and generally being obnoxious.

They buzzed a young mother pushing a stroller.  I don’t know what they said to her, but the vulgarities that she directed at them could only have been provoked by something worse.

And then they saw us and accelerated.  We shuffled over to the side and stopped, pressing against the fence to give them the widest berth possible.  I, in my Santa Claus hat, brought up the rear of our little troop.

The helmetless, jacketless, tactless, brainless freaks edged closer.  The idiot on the back stood up and made some fairly acrobatic hand gestures.  The balancing might have been considered impressive had the peril not been so great.  If they didn’t pull back, they would run into us.  At the last second the driver swerved away.

I exhaled in relief a moment too soon.  The moron on the back snatched my Santa hat as they sped off down the sidewalk, spilling some stacked boxes on the side before speeding into incoming traffic and around a corner.

I was shocked—utterly speechless.  Here we were, trying to spread some Christmas cheer, and some imbecile kifed my Santa hat.  Who does that?  On Christmas Eve?  To a missionary preaching about Christ on Christmas Eve?  I was genuinely incensed.  My anger rose, but I decided to keep it inside rather than cause a scene.

The others started walking again, not noticing my missing hat or knowing what had happened.  It wasn’t until we started below the actual concrete underpass that my companion said, “Hey, Elder Anson, where’s your hat?”

The anger bubble burst, and deciding not to take it out on anybody, I yelled at the roar of the traffic and punched the wall (a habit from earlier high school experiences, but that’s a different story).  Now, for those who haven’t already figured it out on their own, punching a cold, concrete support wall in December when my hands are dry and cracking is not a good idea.

Everyone stopped and looked at me.  Looked at my hat.  Looked at my hand.  And decided not to say anything.  I just shook my head—upset at the two jerks, upset at myself for my reaction.  We shuffled on in silence.

What made it worse was that the other two companionships in out district had dinner appointments to head to. However, My companion and I had nowhere to go.  They split off from us as we had another thirty-minute walk back to our area.  None of the members living in our area had invited us over.  And it didn’t seem right to knock on people’s doors uninvited on Christmas Eve, so we decided to try to see if we could find anyone to talk to out in the largest plaza in our boundaries—the one with all the fountains.  Right now the name escapes me, but I know it is not Plaza Nueva.  We lived close to that one.  Maybe someone can help me out.  I can’t find it on any online maps.

Regardless, no one was out.  And I mean no one.  We stood in that plaza for forty-five minutes without seeing another soul.  The sun had set by then, so we sat down and watched the fountains light up with holiday red and amber and green and white.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that nothing we did that night would be effective, and we talked for a while about a wide array of topics starting with our current pool of work and ending with my imminent departure back to the Sates.

My comp decided he needed to stretch his legs and wandered over to the fountain and walked along its ledge.  I sat still and looked up into the clear sky—rare in the city—and I noticed the calm that had fallen over the mountains to the northeast, touched with the first snows of the season.  The city noises themselves were going to bed.

The night grew cold, and as I sat, feeling a little sorry for myself and for my missing hat, I flipped through the blue hard-covered Book of Mormon in my hands.  I turned to 3 Nephi, Chapter 1, where the sign of Christ’s birth shone in the America’s, far away from the Bethlehemic action.  I reviewed my convictions and why I even came to Spain in the first place.  I knew that He was born, lived, died, and lived again for me, just like He did for everyone else.  The message I was sharing was true. And I knew it.  And He knew that I knew.

I turned my cracked and bleeding hands over, and I realized that the Lord knew me, just as He did the Nephites, just as He knows each of us; and that although I was far away (literally and figuratively), I was not forgotten.  It didn’t matter if I wasn’t invited to a party or a dinner or if I had my two-bit hat.  My selfish thoughts turned to another lowly setting—one two millennia earlier, and my self-pity dissipated.  I calm, warm, reassurance replaced it

It’s difficult impossible for me to relay my exact feelings that Christmas Eve sixteen years ago, but as I attempt typing them tonight, I can still feel that burning that grew in me that night.  It still smolders within, and it will never burn out.

Sacrifice Squeeze

(Makeup for December 26.  Yes, I know it’s out of order, but I have certain stories to tell for certain dates, and I’m still filling in some holes.  Don’t judge.)

There’s nothing I love more than baseball: the smell of the hot dogs and freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat squarely driving a ball into the gap, the roar of the crowd, the bone-jarring collision at a close play at home.  Ever since I knew the joy of squeezing my mitt around a red-stitched, leather covered sphere, I have loved baseball, and like most small boys, dreamed of playing in the major leagues.

I played several years in several leagues, starting in the outfield (because I could catch a fly ball) and then moved to the left side of the infield because I had an accurate arm.  I even pitched a bit, mostly in relief, but eventually I settled at first base where I could manage my infield and hit for power.

For this entry, I could tell highlight reel stories like when I turned two unassisted double plays in one game as a shortstop, or when I played the middle role in a back-to-back-to-back home run rally; or I could talk about showing up trash-talking friends or being named to the all-Europe all-star team for my age group, but I won’t (this time).

No, ironically, one of the most important lessons I learned from playing baseball is that I wasn't good enough.  No matter how hard I tried and practiced and ran fielding scenarios in my head, I neither possessed the raw athletic ability nor the mentality to make it my profession.  Granted, I was good, but not good enough.  And it took one particular incident to force me to abandon my MLB ambitions and move on.

February of my junior year of high school, I found myself as a transfer student at Belleville East.  Open tryouts for the baseball team were held in the main gym due to the snow.  I had recently broken in a new first baseman’s glove in anticipation and had carefully stowed in my bat bag along with my other fielder’s mitt, batting gloves, wristbands, bats, rosin, and other gear. Hauling my equipment, I made my way into the gymnasium and began stretching with the rest of the fifty or sixty who had the same idea.

The mustiness of the air was almost palpable as participants began to add to the perspiration forever trapped in the bleachers and banners hanging from the rafters.  I was myself working up a good healthy, sweat playing long toss the width of the double basketball courts.

And then Coach blew his whistle.

Everyone hustled over because, just as in gym class, lateness meant laps.

But then I noticed Coach wasn't holding his clipboard. He didn't have his hat on either.  I had never seen coach without a Lancer baseball cap; even in his yearbook picture he donned the dirty, faded navy hat pulled low.

We, the mass of hopefuls looked at Coach, but I noticed that he didn't look at us.  In fact, he was avoiding eye contact.  Uncharacteristically, in a rather tremulous voice, he spoke to the scoreboard over our shoulders.

“Uh, you guys can go home.  There are no roster spots available.  We, um, only held tryouts to say that we did it.  I've already got my guys.  They've been together since they were seven.  There’s no chance any one of you, no matter how good, will replace them.” And then he turned back into his office, shutting and locking the door.

At first I was outraged, and in my mind I was already drafting a scathing letter to the school board and the media about fairness, etc.  It was a good thing I had to walk home that afternoon because it gave me some time to think.  Sure, I was good, but did I want to spend the next few years just playing the sport I loved more than…well…almost anything?

I decided to let it fester for a while, and eventually I relented, and my anger subsided.  I never sent my letter (or even wrote it), but I became involved more on the school newspaper (writing sports articles) and the Lancer Lot (a student creative writing group).  I had a job (at KFC) and good friends who helped me see other interests.

But I still loved baseball, a passion that not very many of my friends possessed, and I learned to deal with it.  I still dragged them to several Cardinals games (some even during school hours my senior year).  And somewhere along the way my priorities shifted.  I became more conscientious of girls, music, and preparing for college, but probably more importantly, two other talents I began to develop in earnest: teaching and writing.  I even thought about trying to walk on to the Ricks College team when I was up there, but before I headed to the tryouts, I realized that I had nothing to prove.  I wasn't going.  That decision made, an assuring calm came over me, directing my future toward other endeavors: serving a proselytizing mission, becoming an English teacher, getting married, starting a family, and attempting to write every once in a while.  I still love going to the ballpark, be it as a coach for my own kids, a church softball match, the minor league Owlz, or a big league road trip.  Baseball will always be a part of me; just not the only part.

Some like me to tell the vindicating part of the story.  The summer after Coach told us where to go, I signed up to play city ball—still couldn't give it up—I noticed that three of the four starting pitchers for the Belleville East Lancers also pitched in my league just to get in some extra work, I suppose.  That year, I went 11 for 18 (.611) against the three of them, including seven extra base hits.  Sure, I might have been good enough, but if it weren't for Coach and his pre-selected team, I wouldn't have realized that I had other talents and interests that were worth developing.  Thanks to baseball’s rejection, I became a better-rounded Joe.  Take that to whatever level you want.