What Happened to this Guy?

Swinging for the Fences

It’s playoff baseball time, and as is always the case for me, it harkens me back to the 1950s when baseball was my true religion. We used to carry around little transistor radios that we would put up to our good ear and listen to the games which at that time were not under the lights. It was PeeWee Reese, Duke Snider, Jackie Robinson, Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle. The Yankees, the Dodgers, the Indians, the Tigers—I loved them all, but hated the Yankees, if that makes sense.

The kids in my little town, the boys actually, lived to play baseball. We played almost every day. It was sandlot, unorganized ball, just shirtless boys, taped up bats, battered baseballs, gunny sack bases and mid-summer brown grass fields. There were no umps, no adults, and no girls. I only regret the no girls, but it was the 50s and boys peed standing up so that made us better somehow. It was the 50s. We were stupid—kinda still are in some ways.

Back to the Point

The point is that sandlot baseball was baseball pure. It was the best baseball played anywhere. You know why? Because we all swung for the fences every time we were up to bat. And we hit home runs—lots and lots of home runs. I remember flying around the bases because we all flew around the bases, didn’t we? I’m sorry you women missed this—sincerely sorry. You would have hit home runs too. And you would have flown with us. But, it was the 50s. We were stupid then.

Shirtless and Clueless

So when did this skinny little guy and his equally skinny big brother STOP swinging for the fences? And why? As soon as the Vis brothers started playing organized baseball—the PeeWee leagues—we started to think differently. Before, when baseball was pure, we didn’t know what we couldn’t do—we were clueless. We thought that in life you could swing and miss and be just fine. But when baseball became less pure, more structured, then it was time to make contact, time to NOT strike out. There was nothing worse then striking out. For a six or seven year old kid, the walk back to the dugout after three strikes was as long as a long walk gets. So now you went to the plate not to hit a home run, but to NOT. Strike. Out.

Huge difference. Huge!

But Why?

Why not strike out? What’s so bad about swinging and missing, especially if every now and then you hit it out of the frickin’ park? Striking out was failure and failure in the 50s was shame worthy. We grew up with a lot of shame. And, in the 50s and 60s and 70s and still today maybe, fitting in was the single most important goal in life. God help you if you didn’t fit in. If you were different—looked different, acted different, dressed different, then you were not in and being in, fitting in, that was the everyday work every kid had to do. And it was hard work wasn’t it? Isn’t it?

Playing a Role is Play Acting, isn’t it?

If you were raised in a place like 1950s Northwest Iowa then you learned early on that you had to be a certain type of man or woman. You played a character and that character was like every other man you knew, or if female, than every other woman. Not only did you stop swinging for the fences, but you started all kinds of safe behaviors so as to NOT strike out. No crying in baseball! Or in life. Bury all the kid stuff, the spontaneous joy of being silly or being kind or being soft. The kid that WAS you is pushed deep inside, and that little guy or gal becomes just a tiny voice every once in a while urging you to let it go, take a big swing son—hit or miss, it’s okay. Take a swing, a big bold swing. Put yourself under the waterfall, why not? Be silly. Be serious. Or even be outrageous. Just be real, be the kid inside you, that kid you buried, the one who hit home runs now and then. Be that child again. Don’t you miss that kid?

People where I now live, Southwest Michigan, talk a lot about what a wonderful place this is. And in so many tangible ways it is a great place—the lake, Grand Rapids, Saugatuck, downtown Holland—all good. But here in SW Michigan, to be in, to be successful, you have to play a role. And I’m guessing this is too true everywhere. You cannot fully be yourself! You do not channel the weaned child (Psalm 131:2) you have to be the wary adult.

stillprocessing.org

This kid of mine is much like the kid I was. He’s swung and missed a fair share of the time in his life, but he’s hit some home runs too. My pride in him does not stem from anything he has done, but in his relentless striving to be a better human being. Together, son and father are going to take a big, bold swing for the fences—one more time, for me at least. “Still Processing” is an experiment in community that we believe is essential for this time in our lives, but also for this time in history. We are living in consequential times. Never in my lifetime have the threats to the dearest of our treasures been more real—earth, human kind, spiritual connections.

If you, like Josh and me, are unsettled, perhaps a bit frightened, but also still processing life and love and faith and all the other ”stuff” worth the effort of pursuing, then maybe you should think about joining us in this venture we are calling “Still Processing”. We’ll meet in a room off a bar—The Brew Merchant—at 7 pm on November 3. Josh and I, along with voices from the marginalized community everywhere—songs, TikTok, videos, and surprises—will guide those gathered in processing ”Hope Against Hope.” It will be raw and real and edgy and sensitive and challenging and encouraging—all of these and whatever else happens to you that we can’t predict but only hope for.

Check us out—and let me know you are coming please. My email is marlinpvis@gmail.com.