Leader's Insight: When Being Right Isn't Enough

Ah yes, summer and sporting events. They go together like, well, like baseball and hot dogs. I supported our church’s softball team as a fan the other evening (they do much better with me as a fan than as a player) and I enjoyed the contagious camaraderie and clever baseball banter tossed around from player to player. Unfortunately, I can recall other games when I’ve witnessed well-meaning team members, pepper-hot clergy included, behaving themselves in ways that were less than exemplary.

Last year our church decided to transform our softball games into an entire season of outreach events, so we chose not to join a church league. Instead we joined a city league in which, as far as I know, we are the only church team. And, thanks to our own volunteer Grill Master, Doug the Hot Dog Dude, we started giving away free hot dogs to the opposing players after every game. (We’ve become very popular ever since our team went to the dogs.)

While talking with one of our newer players, I mentioned that a high school principal had told me that the only person he had ever thrown out of a sporting event was a preacher. My friend was shocked.

I wasn’t.

I know how passionate I can become, especially when it’s my team (or worse yet, my kid) out there getting a bad call, bum rap, or a raw deal. Or sometimes, in the case of ministry leadership, when it’s me getting a raw deal.

For your consideration, and hopefully, inspiration, allow me to pass along this true story from my past, to illustrate how important it is that we who proclaim the gospel of peace behave in a way that makes peace (even at sports events):

My father provided a great example of self-control when I was a boy watching a softball game. Dad was 43 at the time and very active. He was good at placing the ball. Singles and doubles were his specialty, and he did the best he could with what he had.

This particular dusty, hot Phoenix evening, Dad poked a good one right over the second baseman’s head. The center fielder flubbed the snag and let the ball bloop between his legs.

My dad saw this as he rounded first base, so he poured on the steam. He was trim and fast. He figured that if he sprinted for third and slid, he could beat the throw.

Everyone was cheering as he sent two of his teammates over home plate. The center fielder finally got his feet under him and his fingers around the ball as Dad headed toward third. The throw came as hard and fast as the outfielder could fire it, and Dad started a long slide on that sunbaked infield. Dust flew everywhere.

The ball slammed into the third baseman’s glove but on the other side of Dad—the outfield side—away from a clear view by the ump who was still at home plate. Our team’s dugout was on the third base side of the diamond, and every one of the players had a clear view of the play.

Dad’s foot slammed into third base a solid second before the ball arrived and before the third baseman tagged his leg with his mitt. But much to everyone’s amazement, and then dismay, and then anger—the umpire, who hesitated slightly before making his call, yelled, “Yerrrr out!“

Instantly, every member of our team poured out onto the field and started shouting at once. Dad’s teammates were intent on only one purpose: they wanted to win, and they knew they were right!

The two runners who had crossed home plate before Dad was called out had brought the score to within one run. If Dad was out—and we all knew he wasn’t—our team was robbed of the tying run, and with only one inning left, this one bad call could cost us the game.

But just as the fracas threatened to boil over into a mini-riot, Dad silenced the crowd. As the dust settled around him, he held up a hand. “Guys, stop!” he yelled. And then more gently, “There’s more at stake here than being right. There’s something more important here than winning a game. If the ump says I’m out … I’m out.”

And with that, he dusted himself off, limped to the bench to get his glove, and walked back into left field all alone, ready to begin the last inning. One by one, the guys on his team gave up the argument, picked up their own gloves, and walked out to their positions on the field.

I’ve got to tell you, I was both bewildered and proud that night.

My dad’s character was showing, and it sparkled. He may have been dusty, but I saw a diamond standing out there under the lights, a diamond more valuable than all the points his team might have scored.

For a few minutes that evening I was a rich kid, basking in my father’s decision to “man up,” to hold his tongue instead of wagging it, to settle the dust instead of settling the score. I knew that his shining character at that moment was worth more than all the silver-plated plastic trophies you could buy.

My father’s example has given me cause to pause when I’ve been tempted to let loose with a less-than-honorable outburst. He reminded me that when I display passion under control, even when I’ve been wronged, I represent someone far more important than my team. He reminded me that even in sports—especially in sports—character counts.

Clark Cothern is pastor of Living Waters Church in Ypsilanti, Michigan, and author of At the Heart of Every Great Father: Finding the heart of Jesus (Multnomah, 1998).

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