Pitter Patter

The other morning I heard the little pitter-patter of feet coming down the steps.  I glanced at the clock--6:05 AM???  What???  No one was due to get up for another hour.  I sighed deeply as I realized my uninterrupted quiet time was about to get interrupted.  The Big O walked in, rubbing his eyes, saying he was 'hungy'.  I wasn't surprised, as he had not appreciated our lunch and dinner menu the day before.  First I told him he couldn't get up yet and that he needed to go back to bed.  Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew that it wasn't going to happen.  No, such attempts never work.  I am not even sure why I tried it.  Thinking about the hunger pangs that must have awakened him, motherly guilt replaced my own pursuits and I poured him a bowl of cereal.

Then I heard more pitter-patter... What in the world???  Another early bird???  I turned to see who the culprit could be and was met with a little pair of legs carrying a large pile of clothing.  Held to the gill were baseball pants, shirts, socks, belts and hats.  I suppressed a smile as the J-man dropped the load down in front of me--the load of new uniforms that he had received at baseball practice the night before.  As it had been too late for him to try them on when he'd gotten home, we had promised him he could try them on this morning.  It reminded me of the time he came into our room at 3:00 in the morning before his first t-ball game, dressed and ready to go.  Guess I should be glad that he hadn't gotten up any earlier this morning.

His eyes shone with the anticipation of trying on all his gear as I stared at the mound of uniforms and wondered where the days had gone when one uniform was more than enough?  Where were the days when rec leagues were more than enough and competitive leagues hadn't gobbled up the simple life?  I would have never thought we would have had a seven-year-old on such a team, yet it was inevitable, I suppose in a boy-filled baseball-crazed home.  Inevitable for a seven-year-old that had spent all last year tagging along at his ten-year-old's brother's competitive games.  Inevitable, that eventually you have to make the switch and play the game by the newly-acquired rules.

I had to admit, it was hard not to get caught up in my little man's excitement.  For the next hour, my proud seven-year-old tried on every one of his three uniforms for me, not once, but TWICE.  He told me a total of ten times about the scrimmage and games that were coming up, what time they were at and where they were going to be.  He had myself and the O vote for our favorite uniform.  We discussed #32 and how he wasn't that crazy about it but that it was Uncle Trent's favorite player on the Red's so it couldn't be all that bad.  We discussed ankle pants vs. knee pants.

Other discussions took place in my head.  Stress mounted as my mind was pelted with questions like, 'What if he shows up to a game wearing the wrong uniform?  What if we can't find his blue shirt on blue uniform day?  What if the washer eats one of those brightly colored socks?  What if my extremely absent minded seven-year-old leaves one of those hats clear across town at the McDonald's playland?'  

...What if... 

Then the what ifs were squashed with the realization that my born-organized husband had taken care of such details like a well oiled machine during last year's baseball season for my ten-year-old.  He could handle it.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

Meanwhile, the O stood on the sidelines--all starry-eyed--filled with great awe and admiration.  I could understand O's infatuation.  I too, was mesmerized by my no-bigger-than-a-minute seven-year-old.  Sure, three uniforms still seemed a bit much to this practical-minded mom, yet I couldn't help being completely impressed and in love with my little guy's newly acquired threads.

The pitter patter of baseball season...a little boy in pinstriped pants with hat engulfing...a heart swelling and overflowing with the pride of being a part of a team...smiling from ear to ear.  Beginning with the pitter patter of little feet and ending with the pitter patter of a mama's heart taking it all in.

So much more than a Kodak moment...but for now it'll have to suffice...  

and in a month I'll let you know how our laundry bill is holding up.

Baseball and the Big O

Everything the Big O does is big.  He lives in the land of extremities.  If he laughs it's going to be a really, loud, goofy laugh.  If he throws a fit, stand back.  It will be a whopper.  If he wants to give you a hug, watch out--he'll probably knock you down.  If he sings, turn up the radio if you were hoping to hear the song and not him.  He plays hard, lives hard, feels hard.  That's just the way he is.

We, as parents, wondered how baseball would play out with him.  We knew it could potentially be a disaster...or it could be a complete joy.  There was no way of knowing; we'd just have to risk it.  One thing we could guarantee, though--he would do things completely different then any of our other kids.  He would put his own off-kiltered twist on things, thus earning a few more badges on his nickname:  the 'O Factor'.

So the O Factor had some choice moments on the field, for sure.  Like the time when he ran off and on the field three separate times in one inning, straight to his momma to share something (in a really loud voice):

'Mom, is Miss Wite here yet?  When she gonna get here?' 

'Mom, I am weally sorry I pooped in my pants earlier.  I am weally, weally sorry Mom.'  (ummm, thanks for the confession.  Such pristine timing.  Really.)

 'Mom, can I have a piece of dat bubba bum (translated bubble gum)?'

The other proud moment was when he danced around and did a little jig in the outfield for five whole minutes.  Yes, that was mighty fine.  I believe this coincided with when he told us that he no longer liked the 'baseball ready' position and wouldn't be doing it anymore.

Then there was his last game when he got called out at third.  Coach Dave was standing at third and said, 'You're out O--go sit down.'  I held my breath and waited to see what he would do.  He had never been called out before.  And his biggest thrill each game was sliding into home.  I watched his face and saw his mouth cock up slightly on one side as he processed this.  He took two steps towards the bench and I started to breathe a sigh of relief, but then caught my breath again when he whipped himself around and put himself back on third.  I guess he thought Coach Dave might not notice.  However, Coach Dave immediately said, 'You're out O--go sit down', once again removing him from the base and pointing him towards the bench. 

Finally realizing Coach Dave meant business, he went and sat down.  Phew--my tense shoulders could finally relax.  Of course, he had to rehash the story to all of his teammates.  But since his speech impediment is slightly serious, no one understood a word he was saying.

After the final game, Coach Dave did a little presentation, giving each player a game ball and their 'end of the season' trophy. The Big O walked up, received his trophy and then swaggert and strutted he did, all the way to his seat. O-ee-O the overly confident showboat...such proud parents we are.

All in all, aside from the outfield jigs, the running on and off the field to discuss his bowel movements, consistently losing his hat on game days, and the 'near-fit' misses, I would say that it was a pretty successful first season.  Yes, I think next year we will once again be chanting for all to hear:

'TWINS, TWINS, TWINS!'   

The Pirates -- Season 2011

The past week and a half has been consumed with Rookie baseball.  While it might have been all consuming, there is not anything we would have rather been doing.  This was Wes' second year to play on the Pirates and the second year to play for Coach Matt, who is also his coach for the travel team he is on, the Patriots.  Last year the Pirates had an undefeated season and ended up beating the Rays in the championship game (you can read about it here).  It was hard fought and well-deserved.  Of course, every returning Pirate as well as Coach Matt dreamed of coming back and winning the championship again, making it two years in a row. 

The Pirates played well throughout the regular season, yet they seemed to be missing that extra ummph, that extra something.  While they tended to play strong defensively, they struggled a bit at bat.  Even so, they only lost one regular season game, ending the season with a 15-1 record.

The tournament began and we all held our breath.  Could the Pirates make it to the championship again?  There were three or four other teams that were pretty tough.  Specifically, the Rays.  Since they were in the American League division (and we were in the National League), we hadn't yet faced them.  They had been blowing teams out all season long, though.  Not only did they play well defensively, they had some heavy hitters in their line up.  They had plowed over teams all season, ending with an undefeated record.  Then there was the Blue Jays to contend with.  They also had been a force to reckon with last year.  They proved to be just as tough this year.  Other teams we needed to look out for were the Reds, the Cardinals and the White Sox.

Because we had won our division, we got a bye in the first round of the tournament.  Thursday night we played the Astros, winning 15-0.  Late Friday night we played the White Sox, resulting in an 8-1 win.  Now there were  four teams left:  the Pirates, the Rays, the Blue Jays and the Yankees.  At this point, it became a double elimination tourney.

Early Saturday morning we came right back to the ball park to face the Blue Jays, which would be the most difficult team to beat yet.  The Bluejays came out strong in the first inning, quickly taking the lead 5-0.  Strangely, after the first (maybe second?) inning, the pitching machine quit working due to a short in the extension cord.  There was a thirty minute delay as the umpires hooked up a new cord and buried it under the dirt.  Coach Matt took advantage of this delay to rally the team.  It worked.  The Pirates did rally, eventually taking the lead and winning 9-6.  This was the first game all season where it felt like the Pirates came together and played like a real team.  They had that extra umph that had been missing prior to this game.  They made some amazing plays and catches in the field and had some incredible bunts and hits.  Oh, I love to watch baseball games like that!  They are deeply satisfying.  Deeply satisfying.   I can tell you that the fans in the stands got some air that day.  I know that I personally was screaming and jumping around like a lunatic!

Sunday came.  It was time for the dreaded face-off against the Rays, and oh, they were playing for blood.  They were ready to get some revenge after last year.  We didn't play until 3:15 PM; my stomach was in knots the whole first half of the day.  You would have thought they were playing the World Series.  Some friends had us over after church for burgers and then went on with us to the game.  I am thankful for them--it kept me from being overly-ridiculously-anxious! 

What made this game more fun than usual was the fact that there were two players on the Rays that were on our travel team (the Patriots), of which Coach Matt is the head coach.  AND the head coach of the Rays is an assistant coach of the Patriots.  So it was Patriot Coach vs. Patriot Coach!  This dynamic made us parents a bit less competitive, as we knew these players and coaches personally and wanted them all to do well!

Nevertheless...a tournament game is a tournament game.  And, oh my--it was a bit brutal.  The Pirates were somewhat rattled at the beginning, making some mistakes in the field.  They just could never get the upper hand in the game, resulting in a loss of 9-2.  We might have been beat, but we were not down for the count.  We still had a chance to come back and play the Rays again for the championship.

Thus, we came back on Monday night to square off against the Yankees (who had upset the Bluejays the day before).  Our Pirates had another incredible game, both defensively and offensively, resulting in a win of 11-3...

The Pirates had done it again!  For the second year in a row they had come back to face off the Rays in the Championship game!  Of course, it would be the challenge of all challenges.  The Pirates would have to beat the Rays twice to win the championship title.  The Rays only had to beat us once. 

Coach Matt did up the championship game, just as he always does.  He rented a sound system and had music playing in between innings.  He had the players announced at the beginning of the game and every time they came up to bat.  This is how Coach Matt operates.  He likes to make it extra-special for everyone involved.  And extra-special it was.

Coach Matt has a knack of squeezing every bit of talent out of a player that can be squeezed.  Oh, in this game every bit of talent came forth.  The Pirates shone.  They played the game of their life.  They held the Rays to three runs for the entire game, something that no team had been able to do all season long.  It was a great defensive battle.  In the end, though, the Rays just had a few extra hits in them then we did.  It was a rather fast and furious game, ending in a score of 3-1, Rays. 

While we would have liked to have won that first game, I don't think there was a parent there that didn't feel as if the Pirates had played 110% that night.  It was a great game--almost everyone hit the ball.  It was a defeat to not be ashamed of.  And they were runners up, which was no small feat. 

That game was quite emotional for my husband and I.  There had been something special about that Pirate team and now--well--I suppose it was the end of an era.  It was the last game of rookie recreational ball.  The last time ever for Wes to play as a Pirate.  The last time ever to play for Coach Matt as a Pirate.  What a run it had been these last two years...what a run. 

And now we get to do it all over again this week with Joshua and Jeremiah...  Oh, I can't wait!  :)

Chronicles of the O's Opening Day

Wednesday, May 11, 2011, 7:00 AM.  The O pops his head around the wall into the kitchen, teeth-filled grin bigger than his face. 

"It's my first baeball bame!"

Immediately followed by:

"Can I put on my baeball oonifoam?"

The mom of perfection ten years ago would not have yielded to such a request.  Get a uniform dirty for opening day??? No way.  But this mom of five has been around the block a few times...she knows that bacon grease and syrup on a uniform is small potatoes.  Today there are way bigger fish to fry than uniform presentation.  She nods in compliance without batting an eye.

At 7:35 AM the mom gets one of those uncanny mom premonitions.  It tells her to make sure the glove is secure for tonight's game.  This manager of chaos is usually not one to follow through with such thoughts ten hours before game time.  That would be--just too on top of things.  But today something makes her scan the shelves in the garage for little man's glove. 

It's 7:40 in the morning on opening day and the O's glove is no where to be found.  Lost.  Left behind on a bleacher somewhere.  The O doesn't take the news very well:

And the first fit is thrown nearly before the dawn of the rooster crow.

Big brother Jeremiah tries to save the day by going and getting his glove out of this bag:  'Look O!  You can use my glove...oh no... MMMOOOOMMMM!  THIS IS BEN'S GLOVE!'

Ben?  Whose Ben?  (and by the way, whose on first, Abbott?) 

Teammate to big brother Ben, that's who.  Whose glove happens to look a whole lot like big brother's, resulting in a switch-a-roo..or would that be a switch-a-who? (is it just me, or is this starting to sound like Dr. Suess?)

'No worries, O.  This is so exciting!  You get to use Jeremiah's teammate Ben's glove for your first game ever!  Isn't that special?'

High maintenance youngest sibling of five isn't buying it. 

Recovery is looking unlikely, but then Miss Shell shows up with a special something something to commemorate opening day:

And the face does a 360.

Cupcakes with plastic baseballs save the day...once more, all is right in the world.

Shortly after the sugar consumption, I announce the next surprise:

OPENING DAY HAIRCUTS!

At this point in the day, eldest son Joshua, whose concern for justice is of utmost importance, pulls me aside:

'Wow--pictures, cupcakes, haircuts, more pictures...you sure are making a big deal about this first game.  Did you make this big of a deal about my first game?'

Buddy, go open the cabinet in the basement and pull out scrapbook, volume #7.  On page 250, you'll find a ten page spread, I'm sure of it.

Phew.  Glad those middle kids...what's their names...didn't pose that question.

So we mosey on down to the Sports Clips and this momma has a trump card in our back pocket...and she's so excited to pull it out, yes she is.  The last of the pack needs some trumpet noise--some announcing--every now and then.  A trump card of the Mr. T. variety:

One last look, Mimi:

And back to our red-neck roots we go:

The 'out-in-your-face-here-I-am' kind of do.  A mohawk-sportin', red-neck stylin' grand-son.  Mimi is so proud.  I know she is. 

So with the buzz of the clippers, the O's capacity for trouble just grew ten-fold.  Or, more accurately, just exposed what was already there.  (Who just knocked that kid down?  It was the boy with the mohawk.  Who is throwing a fit out there in the field?  The boy with the mohawk.  Who is stomping off from his parents again?  Oh, just the boy with the mohawk.)  Yep.  No hiding now...  No longer able to hide under the innocent locks of brown hair.  No longer.

The O is in his element, his prime.  It fits like a glove, and he can't lose this one I might add.

And finally, finally, it's 6:00 PM--the moment we've all been waiting for. 

And a slew of 'firsts' for this four-year-old happens in a matter of minutes.

His first National Anthem:

His first team huddle:

His first time to field (sportin' Ben somebody-or-other's glove):

First up to bat (with dad's assistance):

First time to score:

And amidst all his 'firsts', his fan club cheers him on:

Of course, in O fashion, he pretends to ignore the signs.  He pretends to ignore the friends, the Mimi, the aunt and cousin cheers.  He tries to look all unaffected...but the smile seeping out of the corner of his pretend somberness gives him away.  Later, when it's safe to care, he'll talk non-stop about all the people that came to share in his day of firsts.

O boy, you are one-of-a-kind.  You might be number five, but you're the first to ever sport a mohawk in this family.  And sport it well I might add.  Crooked smilin' mohawkin stylin'.  Yep.  It suits you.  It suits you just fine. 

So thankful to share in this day of firsts with you...we love you O-ee-O.

The O Factor's Debut

Yesterday was our youngest boy's first official t-ball practice. Owen (whom we like to lovingly refer to as the 'O Factor') has been waiting all of his life to get some action out on the field. Since he was one month old, he has been sitting in the stands as a spectator. So yesterday marked a big milestone in the life of our four-year-old. Here he is right before we left for his practice:

And here he is with his sidekick, Jeremiah.  They are 'baseball ready!'

For the last two years, older brother Jeremiah played on the 'Twins' at Lyndon Recreation.  It has been the best t-ball team we ever played on because of the coaches (you can read about them here).  In fact, word must have gotten out about the coaching, because there were sixteen parent requests to play on the Twins!  Sixteen!  Wow.  We are so glad that Owen made the cut.  And so is he.  He would have been devastated if he couldn't have followed in his big brother's footsteps and be a 'Twin'.  And since he and Jeremiah are like twins (not only do they look alike, they spend every waking moment together),  it fits that he would be on a team named such.

While they may look alike and enjoy the same activities, Jeremiah and Owen's personalities are night and day different.  Jeremiah is laid-back, soft-spoken and compliant.  Owen is intense, loud and well--a rule breaker.  In fact, his personality is what led to us calling him 'the O Factor'.  I have already warned the coach that Owen is a completely different animal--I mean boy--than Jeremiah.

So off to practice they went, the daddy and son.  What Owen didn't know was that Sophie and I were going to come by shortly after they started.  There were two reasons we couldn't resist seeing the O Factor's debut:  1) because watching a four year old on the field is just hard to resist 2) whereever the O Factor is, there is usually a 'story'...

When Sophie and I arrived, the coach had divided the team into groups to practice their fielding.  We set on the stands with about thirty other people (no--I am not kidding.  You would have thought it was a game with all the spectators at this practice!  See?  These parents can't resist either!).  Anyway, suddenly Owen told his coach he needed to go potty.  Eric, who was helping another group of youngsters, began walking off the field to accompany our O to the bathroom--or so he thought. 

Our O Factor ran off the field and dropped those pants right outside the backstop.  Yep.  There he was--drawers pulled down, baring all...trying to do his business.

Everyone's attention turned from the field to this bare bottom...of course it did.  This is usually the case with the O Factor.

Soph and I about fell off the bleachers and busted a gut.

And then I remembered that I was the mom.  And a responsible mom would offer to take their child to the bathroom.  That a responsible mom wouldn't just lay there laughing while the responsible dad left his coaching post and took the O to the bathroom...

So as responsible Dad pulled up the drawers, I gained my composure, snorted one more time, and fessed up as the mom of deliquent boy.  

Well, that was a bad decision.  

O Factor hadn't realized that dear Mom was in the stands.  And dear Mom has a way of bringing out the best in him.  The O immediately ran towards the bathrooms, his defiant arms in the air, yelling, 'I going by myself, Otay?!?  I can do this myself!' 

As I chased after him, I guess the Factor got it in his head once again that he didn't really want to bother with the bathroom.  After all, he was in the middle of his t-ball practice and time was of the essence.  So he stopped and dropped those drawers again, intending to get his business DONE.

'Owen, you can't do that...pull up your pants!'

I don't know if it was me yelling or the fact that he did not want his mom to help him, but O pulled up his pants and began running towards the bathroom again, yelling, 'I don't need help, otay??!'

I finally caught up with him.  That just made him all the madder.  So he decided to do a front noseplant into the ground.  He laid there stiff on the ground.  Yes!  A fit of the finest sorts. 

'I don't need help, otay???'

Getting him to wash his hands was another whole battle.

'I don't have time, otay???!'

After practice, Owen wanted to stay and run the bases a few minutes.  And here is fit two, three and four:

Oh me. Oh my.  I think our parenting abilities are going to dissolve into the dust of the t-ball field this season.

'Tis the Season

With the start of spring, many minds instantly picture flowers blooming, warmer weather,and the beginning of longer days. For our family, the mental picture that comes to our minds is baseball. It's the season that means treking to the ball field on an almost nightly basis. It means our four-year-old has 'red clay' from Lyndon ball field in his hair for two months straight. It means that we will be eating a lot of PB&J picnic dinners on the bleachers. It means we will go to McCalister's Deli on a regular basis because all five of our kids can eat FREE (it also means that they'll know our family and our order by name by the end of the season!). It means I will be spending a lot of money on ring pops to keep the 'O Factor' happy. It means getting home past nine most nights, covered in dirt and sweat. It means washing and scrubbing baseball pants daily. It means my seven-year-old, nine-year-old and thirteen-year-old will play pitch and catch non-stop out in the yard. It means that we will talk over and re-hash every game, play-by-play. We won't talk about anything else. We have a one track mind because it's baseball season.

...Listen closely--I can almost hear it, can't you? It's the music from 'The Rookie' playing in the background...


It’s opening day. Fresh, cut grass feels the air. Boys, young and old, dream about a winning season as they walk from the parking lots with their dads to their first game. With their baseball bags slung over their shoulders and sporting new uniforms, they can't help feeling proud. In fact, it's hard to suppress the grin welling up inside because of the sheer delight over the love they have for the sport. Suppress it, they do, however, because they envision their favorite major league player walking onto the field in all seriousness. Thus, they must compose themselves tall and soberly. After all, one day, they too will be playing for the majors.


Everyone rises for the National Anthem. Baseball players are scattered throughout the many fields, saluting the flag respectively, with hats off. A tear or too trickles down the cheek of more than one parent as they take in the scene before them. Something about the National Anthem and the 'All-American' sport of baseball, coupled with a boy in a uniform, makes one's emotions aroused.


The games begin. Dirt and dust from the in-field encompasses everything and everyone as boys hit the ball and round the bases. Shouts of 'hey, batter, batter!...' and 'Strike!' fill the air, along with some whoops and hollers from the spectators.


Hope is in the air because a new day has dawned. It's baseball season.

A beautiful story

(So I really wanted to get this done BEFORE the World Series started, and now the Rangers are down two games :( but STILL--this is an amazing story, and if you don't know about it, please read! It is worth your time! AND--this story is a powerful picture of 'coming-back'. Who knows? Maybe the Rangers will have such a story at the end of this series! GO RANGERS!!!!!)



Baseball is a sport that takes pristine hand-eye coordination, rapidly-responding reflexes, along with an intellect that can process and react with extreme precision. And let's not forget about just good 'ole God-given talent.

From the beginning, all who knew Josh Hamilton knew they were witnessing something rare and special. That 'God-given' talent was already evident in his eight and nine year old leagues. He was so far beyond the other players his age, he began playing with kids two years older than him, and still--out shone them all. It was no surprise when he was the #1 draft pick at the age of eighteen, the youngest rookie to ever go #1 in the major leagues.

Throughout his entire growing up years, Josh was considered a 'good kid'--he never drank or smoke. However, all of that in 2002 when he was injured as a result of a car wreck. This car wreck would be the beginning of a downward spiral for Josh. For the first time in his life, he was unable to play baseball. Struggling with boredom and depression, Josh's life began a slow downward spiral...

It started with going to the tatoo parlor and getting inked. Then he began drinking and getting high with the employees. From there, he began using other more potent drugs, such as cocaine, and then finally, crack... it seemed that his life and his baseball talent would be given over to his addiction. People began talking about him with a shake of their head and saying things like, 'what a shame....' Most everyone gave up on him.

Everyone, that is, except God. God--the Great Redeemer--who, in all His mercy, swooped down, taking Josh off the path of destruction and putting him on the path of life.

Friday night when the Rangers beat the Yankees to go on to the World Series, Josh Hamilton knew that that win and that night was about a whole lot more than baseball. Named the MVP of the American League, Josh had this to say when interviewed after the game: '...I just give glory to God. I couldn't get through each day without my relationship with Jesus Christ. Jesus--He's my best friend. I owe this to Him.'

The following is Josh's story in his own words, published in an ESPN magazine a few years back when he was playing for the Cinncinati Reds. Please read it; it is SOOO worth reading:

To let you know how far I've come, let me tell you where I've been.

Not that long ago, there were nights I went to sleep in strange places praying I wouldn't wake up. After another night of bad decisions, I'd lie down with my heart speeding inside my chest like it was about to burst through the skin. My thinking was clouded, and my talent was one day closer to being totally wasted.

I prayed to be spared another day of guilt and depression and addiction. I couldn't continue living the life of a crack addict, and I couldn't stop, either. It was a horrible downward spiral that I had to pull out of, or die. I lay there -- in a hot and dirty trailer in the North Carolina countryside, in a stranger's house, in the cab of my pickup -- and prayed the Lord would take me away from the nightmare my life had become.

When I think of those terrible times, there's one memory that stands out. I was walking down the double-yellow of a two-lane country highway outside Raleigh when I woke up out of a trance.

I was so out of it I had lost consciousness, but my body had kept going, down the middle of the road, cars whizzing by on either side. I had run out of gas on my way to a drug dealer's house, and from there I left the truck and started walking. I had taken Klonopin, a prescription antianxiety drug, along with whatever else I was using at the time, and the combination had put me over the edge. It's the perfect example of what I was: a dead man walking.

And now, as I stand on the green grass of a major league outfield or walk to the batter's box with people cheering for me, I repeatedly ask myself one simple question: How did I get here from there?

I've been in the big leagues as a member of the Cincinnati Reds for half a season, but I still find myself taking off my cap between pitches and taking a good look around. The uniform, the ballparks, the fans -- it doesn't seem real. How am I here? It makes no sense to anybody, and I feel almost guilty when I have to tell people, over and over, that I can't answer that one simple question.

I go to sleep every night with a clear mind and a clear conscience. Every day, I walk into an immaculate clubhouse with 10 TVs and all the food I can eat, a far cry from the rat-infested hellholes of my user past. I walk to my locker and change into a perfectly clean and pressed uniform that someone else hung up for me. I grab a bat and a glove and walk onto a beautifully manicured field to play a game for a living.

How am I here? I can only shrug and say, "It's a God thing." It's the only possible explanation.

There's a reason my prayers weren't answered during those dark, messed-up nights I spent scared out of my mind. There's a reason I have this blessed and unexpected opportunity to play baseball and tell people my story.

My wife, Katie, told me this day would come. At my lowest point, about three years ago, when I was wasting away to skin and bones and listening to nobody, she told me I'd be back playing baseball someday. She had no reason to believe in me. During that time, I did nothing to build my body and everything to destroy it. I'd go five or six months without picking up a ball or swinging a bat. By then, I'd been in rehab five or six times -- on my way to eight -- and failed to get clean. I was a bad husband and a bad father, and I had no relationship with God. Baseball wasn't even on my mind.

And still Katie told me, "You're going to be back playing baseball, because there's a bigger plan for you." I couldn't even look her in the eye. I said something like, "Yeah, yeah, quit talking to me."

She looks pretty smart, doesn't she? I have a mission now. My mission is to be the ray of hope, the guy who stands out there on that beautiful field and owns up to his mistakes and lets people know it's never completely hopeless, no matter how bad it seems at the time. I have a platform and a message, and now I go to bed at night, sober and happy, praying I can be a good messenger.

Addiction is a humbling experience. Getting it under control is even more humbling. I got better for one reason: I surrendered. Instead of asking to be bailed out, instead of making deals with God by saying, "If you get me out of this mess, I'll stop doing what I'm doing," I asked for help. I wouldn't do that before. I'd been the Devil Rays' No. 1 pick in the 1999 draft, supposedly a five-tool prospect. I was a big, strong man, and I was supposed to be able to handle my problems myself. That didn't work out so well.

Every day I'm reminded that my story is bigger than me. It never fails. Every time I go to the ballpark, I talk to people who are either battling addictions themselves or trying to help someone else who is. Who talks to me? Just about everybody. I walked to the plate to lead off an inning in early May, minding my own business, when the catcher jogged out to the mound to talk to his pitcher. As I was digging in, the home plate umpire (I'm intentionally not naming him) took off his mask and walked around the plate to brush it off. He looked up at me and said, "Josh, I'm really pulling for you. I've fought some battles myself, and I just want you to know I'm rooting for you."

A father will tell me about his son while I'm signing autographs. A mother will wait outside the players' parking lot to tell me about her daughter. They know where I've been. They look to me because I'm proof that hope is never lost.

They remind me that this isn't really about baseball. It's amazing that God allowed me to keep my baseball talents after I sat out three years and played only 15 games last season in A-ball. On May 6, I hit two homers against the Rockies at home, and I felt like I did in high school. I felt like I could do anything on the field.

I've been called the biggest surprise in baseball this year, and I can't argue with that. If you think about it, how many people have gone from being a crack addict to succeeding at anything, especially something as demanding as major league baseball? If I hadn't been picked up by the Reds after the Rule 5 draft, which opened up a major league roster spot for me, I'd probably still be in A-ball. Instead, I'm hanging around .270 with 13 homers through 60 games with Cincinnati; not bad for a 26-year-old major league rookie. But the way I look at it, I couldn't fail. I've been given this platform to talk about the hell I've been through, so it's almost like I need to do well, like I don't have a choice.

This may sound crazy, but I wouldn't change a thing about my path to the big leagues. I wouldn't even change the 26 tattoos that cover so much of my body, even though they're the most obvious signs of my life temporarily leaving the tracks. You're probably thinking, Bad decisions and addiction almost cost him his life, and he wouldn't change anything? But if I hadn't gone through all the hard times, this whole story would be just about baseball. If I'd made the big leagues at 21 and made my first All-Star team at 23 and done all the things expected of me, I would be a big-time baseball player, and that's it.

Baseball is third in my life right now, behind my relationship with God and my family. Without the first two, baseball isn't even in the picture. Believe me, I know.

***** I'LL NEVER forget Opening Day in Cincinnati. When they called my name during introductions and a sellout crowd stood and cheered, I looked into the stands and saw Katie and our two kids -- Sierra, who's nearly 2, and my 6-year-old stepdaughter, Julia -- and my parents and Katie's parents. I had to swallow hard to keep from breaking down right there. They were all crying, but I had to at least try to keep it together.

I pinch-hit in the eighth inning of that game against the Cubs, and Lou Piniella decided to make a pitching change before I got to the plate. The crowd stood and cheered me for what seemed like forever. It was the best sound I've ever heard. When I got into the box, Cubs catcher Michael Barrett looked up at me from his crouch and said, "You deserve it, Josh. Take it all in, brother. I'm happy for you." I lined out to left, but the following week I got my first start and my first hit -- a home run.

Whether I hit two bombs or strike out three times, like I did in a game against the Pirates, I never forget that I'm living with addiction. It's just part of my life. Johnny Narron, my former manager's brother, is a big part of my recovery. He's the Reds' video coordinator, and he once coached me in fall baseball when I was 15. He looks after me on the road. When they pass out meal money before a trip -- always in cash -- they give mine to Johnny, and he parcels it out to me when I need it.

I see no shame in that; it's just one of the realities of my situation. I don't need to be walking around with $400 in my pocket.

I know I'm different, and my teammates have been very accepting. Being a rookie in the big leagues, there are certain rituals involved, and one of them is carrying beer onto the plane. My teammates gave me that job on one of the first road trips, and I didn't do it. I didn't think it would be a good idea for me to be seen carrying beer onto a plane. They respected my decision.

I get a lot of abuse in visiting cities, but it only bothers me when people are vulgar around kids. The rest I can handle. Some of it is even funny. In St. Louis, I was standing in rightfield when a fan yelled, "My name is Josh Hamilton, and I'm a drug addict!" I turned around and looked at him with my palms raised to the sky. "Tell me something I don't know, dude," I said. The whole section started laughing and cheering, and the heckler turned to them and said, "Did you hear that? He's my new favorite player." They cheered me from that point on.

I live by a simple philosophy: Nobody can insult me as much as I've insulted myself. I've learned that I have to keep doing the right things and not worry about what people think. Fortunately, I have a strong support group with Katie, my family and Johnny. If I ever get in a bad situation, I know I would have to get out of it and give Johnny a call. The key is not getting myself into those situations, but we've talked about having a plan for removing myself just in case. It's all part of understanding the reality of the addiction.

In spring training, when I hit over .400 and made the team, there was a lot of interest in my story.

I decided to be open about what happened to me; early on, I was doing long interviews before my first game in every city. It's been amazing how people have responded, and I think being honest helped. I can't avoid my past, so I don't try. It's not always easy, though. I got sick in late May and ended up on the disabled list after going to the hospital with a stomach problem, and I knew I'd have to answer questions about whether I was using again. I can't control what people think, but the years of drug abuse tore up my immune system pretty good. I get tested three times a week, and if it comes back positive, I know I'm done with baseball for life.

Aside from our struggles as a team, this season has been a dream for me. And that's fitting, because in a way I had to learn how to dream all over again. When I was using, I never dreamed. I'd sleep the dead, dreamless sleep of a stalled brain. When I stopped using, I found my dreams returned. They weren't always good dreams; most of the ones I remember were haunting and dark. They stayed with me long after I woke up.

Within my first week of sobriety in October 2005 -- after I showed up at my grandmother's house in Raleigh in the middle of the night, coming off a crack binge -- I had the most haunting dream. I was fighting the devil, an awful-looking thing. I had a stick or a bat or something, and every time I hit the devil, he'd fall and get back up. Over and over I hit him, until I was exhausted and he was still standing.

I woke up in a sweat, as if I'd been truly fighting, and the terror that gripped me makes that dream feel real to this day. I'd been alone for so long, alone with the fears and emotions I worked so hard to kill. I'm not embarrassed to admit that after I woke up that night, I walked down the hall to my grandmother's room and crawled under the covers with her. The devil stayed out of my dreams for seven months after that. I stayed clean and worked hard and tried to put my marriage and my life back together. I got word in June 2006 that I'd been reinstated by Major League Baseball, and a few weeks afterward, the devil reappeared.

It was the same dream, with an important difference. I would hit him and he would bounce back up, the ugliest and most hideous creature you could imagine. This devil seemed unbeatable; I couldn't knock him out. But just when I felt like giving up, I felt a presence by my side. I turned my head and saw Jesus, battling alongside me. We kept fighting, and I was filled with strength. The devil didn't stand a chance.

You can doubt me, but I swear to you I dreamed it. When I woke up, I felt at peace. I wasn't scared. To me, the lesson was obvious: Alone, I couldn't win this battle. With Jesus, I couldn't lose.

***** I GET cravings sometimes, and I see it as the devil trying to catch me in a weak moment. The best thing I can do is get the thought out of my mind as soon as I can, so it doesn't turn into an obsession. When it happens, I talk to him. I talk to the devil and say, "These are just thoughts, and I'm not going to act on them." When I talk like that, when I tell him he's not going to get the best of me, I find the thought goes away sooner.

Believe it or not, talking to the devil is no harder to explain than many other experiences I've had since that day last December when my life changed. I was working for my brother's tree service in Raleigh, sending limbs through a chipper, when I found out I'd been selected by the Cubs and traded to the Reds in the Rule 5 draft.

But there is one story that sticks with me, so much so that I think of it every day. I was driving out of the players' parking lot at Great American Ball Park after a game in May, with Katie and our two girls. There's always a group of fans standing at the curb, hoping to get autographs, and I stop to sign as many as I can.

And on this particular night, a little boy of about 9 or 10, wearing a Reds cap, handed me a pen and something to sign. Nothing unusual there, but as I was writing the boy said, "Josh, you're my savior."

This stopped me. I looked at him and said, "Well, thank you. Do you know who my savior is?"

He thought for a minute. I could see the gears turning. Finally, he smiled and blurted out, "Jesus Christ." He said it like he'd just come up with the answer to a test. "That's exactly right," I said.

You see, I may not know how I got here from there, but every day I get a better understanding of why.


1 I waited patiently for the LORD;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
2 He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.

3 He put a new song in my mouth,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear
and put their trust in the LORD.

A League of Their Own (Wes' season)

This last and final baseball entry is about Wes and his season. I entitled it 'A League of Their Own' because Wes' team was one of those special teams that you hope to experience in your sport's career. I am going to do my best to describe it.

We prayed and prayed that Wes would get on a good team with a good coach for a couple of reasons. One, Wes had been on a team the prior year that had really struggled and we were hopeful he might be on a better one this season. Two, while all of our boys love baseball, Wes takes the cake. He is about as fanatical as they come for an eight year old.

Every spring afternoon, Wes would spend a couple of hours, at least, practicing baseball. As I would do the dishes, I would look out the kitchen window and see Wes out in the back yard practicing running the bases. As I homeschooled the others, I would hear him throwing the ball up against the side of the house. While I made supper, I could hear him in the garage doing hitting drills. No, I am not kidding. Joshua is pretty disciplined about practicing, but I think Wes even beat him out on hours of practice. I started referring to Wes as Mr. Baseball.

So, you can see why we were hopeful he would get on a team with a coach that took it serious. Well, did God ever answer that prayer...

Wes was put on the Pirates. From the first five minutes of his first practice, we could tell that Wes had a great coach. Eric came home from that practice and said,'this guy really knows what he's doing. He sure can teach the fundamentals of the game.' Now, I am not one to like to sit through watching practices; in the past I have considered them a bit boring. But, after watching one Pirate's practice, I was hooked. This guy (Coach Matt) could even make practice exciting to watch. Pretty soon, Eric and I were fighting over who got to take Wes to practice!

Coach Matt was one of the most efficient coaches I've ever seen. He was completely on top of every drill they did. He had a knack for getting every bit of talent out of each of the players he coached. He was hard but he also really cared about the boys and made it fun. It was kind of like seeing tough love in action.

He was every bit as efficient off the field as he was on. He sent out detailed emails letting us know exactly what was going on when. Not only that, but you would have thought these boys were on an all-star team, as he had us order two different pair of baseball pants for the boys with black belts and black socks. One pair of pants were black and white pin striped. The other pair were gray with a black stripe down the side. He then gave us a schedule of which pants to wear for each game. He also bought black Pirates batting helmets for them to wear when batting. For himself, he bought the traditional black Pirates baseball hat and shirt to wear to each game. Whether or not we would be any good was still out on the table, but we sure were going to dress the part. All of this extra effort on his part made the anticipation mount; we anxiously awaited opening day. And I thought, 'Mr. Baseball (Wes), meet Mr. Baseball (Coach Matt).' Yes, our Mr. Baseball had met his match!

We needn't have worried about whether or not our talent was going to be able to match our attire. The Pirates won their first game 20 something to 0. It was a bit of a blow out and I started to feel badly for the other team and hoped they would at least get on the board.

Every game began to be a repeat of that first one. Now, you would have thought it would have started to get boring--to win every game by so many runs. The interesting thing is, it didn't. It got more and more exciting. There was something special about the chemistry of our team. As my mother-in-law said, 'there is just something magical about them.' I was amazed at the defensive ability of these eight and nine year olds. That is basically why our opponents couldn't get many runs on the board; they couldn't get much by them. We saw them turn several double plays. We saw some amazing catches. And we saw these boys instinctively know at what base to make the play. Many of the teams had difficulty stealing second because our catcher could get them out at second. We heard Coach Matt say more than once, 'defense always beats offense. Always.' Now, the boys could really hit the ball too, but it was their defense that made them stand out and made them truly fun to watch.

Coach Matt is 100% Italian...if you can picture 'Cake Boss' except in the world of baseball, you've got the picture. He could be--well--intense. He has that typical Italian personality. He doesn't hold back what he is feeling when he is feeling it. So he culd be explosive one minute and encouraging the next. The thing is, for every bit of his toughness, he was equally praiseworthy over a good play. Not only that, the time and effort he put into these boys was unbelievable. He took them and paid for ice cream for the team after several games. He reserved and paid for batting cages for batting practice for the entire team at least twice. He offered to meet with the boys individually outside of practice and work on hitting or fielding. And when the season was about midway through, he sent out an email inviting the entire team and families to an end of season cookout and swim party at their community pool. He really put his all into this team.

Well, at the end of the regular season we were undefeated. I think the closest anyone ever came to beating us was within six runs. We were excited to play in the tournament. We had been playing National League teams all season...but their were two teams in the American League that we would eventually face that were going to be hard to beat. They were both good hitting teams and pretty good defensively. We would have to be playing our best to beat them.

The tournament began. We won our first three games easily by several runs. At this point, we advanced to the semi-finals. There were four teams left and it became double elimination. The next team we faced were the Blue Jays. In my opinion, they were our toughest competition. It was going to be pretty evenly matched and our boys would have to fight through the game and give it their all if they were going to beat this team.

This game was the biggest nail biter in history. Not to mention, Eric had stayed back for a couple of days in Murray, KY to be with his grand-dad (his grandmother had just passed away), and it was just me and Owen, my three year old, at the game. AND, Joshua's team was playing a few fields over at the same time in their tournament game, which was also a nail biter. What's a mom to do? I was running back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off, dragging Owen with me and cheering like a crazy woman. INTENSE, to say the least! I earned a few more gray hairs that night, for sure.

Basically, it was an extremely close game, resulting in it being tied 6 to 6 in the last inning. This was the first time we hadn't scored several runs in a game because this was the first time we had ever played a team that could stop us in the field. The Blue Jays had some amazing catches in the out field to say the least. Also, our defense played an impeccable game that night. To be honest, it was close to perfect--the best defense I had seen them play yet.

Tied 6-6, we went into extra innings, with the Pirates having the home advantage. That flip for Home probably won that game for us. We got a couple of runs in, making the score 8-6. They then got another run in, making it a one point ballgame. They had some players on base, yet we were able to hold them and win the game. YES! Coach Matt praised the team that night for their defense and warning them that we would see the Blue Jays again. You see, the Blue Jays were now in the losers bracket; they would play the loser between the Rays and the Marlins. However, most likely they would win that game, resulting in them playing again. We would play the winner between the Rays and the Marlins (are you confused yet? I know! But hold tight, even if you don't really get who's playing who. The ending is worth it!).

The Rays ended up winning, so next up would be the Pirates vs. Rays and the Bluejays vs. the Marlins. This game was super important because both the Rays and the Pirates had yet to lose a game. Whoever won this would have a huge advantage. All they would have to do is show up on Friday night for the championship game and win. The loser however, would have to win three games to become the champions.

Now, remember, we are going into this game yet to have lost a game, and we are the only team in the whole Lyndon Recreational League with an undefeated record. Going into a tournament with such a record can sometimes be a disadvantage because whether you mean to or not, you get a bit of an 'air', if you know what I mean.

So here we go. The biggest game of the year. Rays vs. Pirates. From the start, it was as if all was against us. It seemed as if the game was 'off' from the start. Coach Matt was wound up tight. Our boys were wound up tight. As a result, our guys made fielding errors they hadn't made all year. I have to say it was a real let-down. It's harder to stomach a loss, I think, when you know you could have played better.

As we walked to our cars that night, I wondered how our team would react to this loss. We hadn't ever had to deal with losing before. Would it get the best of us? Would they be able to keep it from ruffling them? I knew our team had a lot of talent but could it come back on Friday and do the seemingly impossible feat of winning three tough games? Only time would tell.

Friday rolled around and we (as Coach Matt predicted) faced the Blue Jays again. To make it to the championship game we had to beat the Blue Jays and then immediately play a second game against the Rays. If we were able to muster up a win against the Rays, we would then come back the following morning and play the Rays one more time for the Championship title. All the Rays had to do tonight was waltz in and play the winner of the Pirates and the Blue Jays.

Well, the Blue Jays were out for blood. This turned out to be, again, just as much as a nail biter as the very first tournament game we played against them. Except this time they wanted revenge. BAD. But we had something that night that I think gave us the edge to pull out a win. Remember the infamous line between Julius and Gerry in 'Remember the Titans'?

'Attitude reflects leadership.'

That night's game showcased Coach Matt's love for his boys. He showed up with a sound system for the game that night so that the boys could be announced prior to the game and prior to batting. He had music playing from the sound system before the game and in between innings. At the beginning of the tournament, Coach Matt had told the boys he would get a mohawk if they won the championship. So, all around the dug out he hand hung these posters:



Coach Matt set the tone for the evening by making it fun. Rather than our boys being wound tight, our boys caught the spirit and looked like they were having the time of their lives. The attitude definitely reflected the leadership that night.

Play Ball!

And that our boys did. I daresay both teams gave it their all. It was back and forth, good play after good play. Both teams were 'on'. Both teams looked unstoppable.

But we edged ahead our last time to bat. We were the visitors so we had to hold them. And that we did!

The Pirates were headed to the Championship!

The Rays waltzed out on the field. Cool and crisp, clean and tidy, not having played a game minutes before. Oh, this one was going to be a tough one. Could we do it?

From the start the Rays seemed to have the upper hand. And we just looked, well, tired. Even though we were down a couple of runs in our last inning up to bat (we were visitors again), I just couldn't shake the feeling that this game wasn't over yet.

One out.

Two outs.

Last person up to bat.

Two strikes. Full count.

Ball is pitched. Bat is swung. The bat connects with the ball, with a beautiful cracking sound. The ball is hit out into the field. Bases are rounded...

In a crucial moment with two outs and two strikes, the tide is turned. Just like that. When the inning ends, we are up by two. The Rays seemed stunned and perplexed when they come up to bat. They can't get anything going, and ...

The Pirates won!!!!

Yes! We are headed to the championship that next morning. We must play the Rays one more time and win to be the champions!

That next morning, the smell of victory was in the air. You just sensed it was going to be a good day. You sensed Coach Matt would be heading to the barber after the game.

I wish I could remember every detail to tell you. Every play. I wish I had recorded it right when it happened. It was one of those special moments in your sports career that every boy dreams of. Some get to experience it more than once. Some never get the chance. My eight-year-old boy got to taste and smell the sweetness of a championship victory. It was as if he had just won the Worlds Series (parents, you know what I am talking about!). It was a special moment, indeed! A cherished moment in the life of our family to forever be remembered.

Coach Matt did go and get his mohawk and we had a pool and pizza party immediately following the big win. A fun way to end a fun season.




And next year we get to do it all over again. :)