Life, Death, and Baseball

There are certain things you expect to see when you attend a fall Little League game. Parents shouting in support of their young stars, boys running around having fun, base hits, errors… okay, lots of errors. But the one thing you don’t expect to see is another parent sitting next to you suddenly in a life and death crisis. But that is exactly what happened to me at my son’s first baseball game of the fall season.

This particular night was the first cold night we’d had for several months. Of course, it’s opening night, why wouldn’t it be cold? As we sat in the stands, bundled against the elements, I struck up a conversation with the parents sitting next to me. We talked about our boys, chuckled at some of the plays we witnessed, and discussed the differences between Spring Little League and Fall Little League. The one thing I didn’t do that I normally would, is introduce myself to my newfound friends.

After a few minutes of light rain and a cool breeze, my wife decided to head to the car to watch from warmer confines. I stayed in the stands, watching the game and talking more with my new friends. At one point, as I turned to say something, I noticed the wife looking over my shoulder and behind me.

I turned to see her husband standing behind the stands, back to us, hands on his knees. It looked to me like he had a bloody nose, as he leaned forward and I saw what looked to be drops of blood hitting the dirt at his feet.

His wife asked, “Do you need to go to the hospital?” At which point I realized I didn’t know the full story. I looked at her and asked if he was going to be okay. She said, “I don’t think so. He just had surgery this week.”

She stepped down from the bleachers and walked to him, placing her hand on his back and speaking softly into his ear. I watched anxiously, waiting to see any sign of whether he was going to be okay. In all honesty, I also wondered to myself whether I really wanted to get involved, not knowing the severity of what was happening or whether I was even equipped to help.

As he turned toward me, I realized there was something terribly wrong. Blood was rushing from his mouth, and it looked like he was having a hard time breathing. His wife turned to a man standing nearby, asking if he would help her get him to their car. I realized that was not a good idea, and he wouldn’t make it that far based on what I was witnessing.

I jumped off the bleachers, looked at the other man and told him to call 911. “He’s not going to make it to the car,” I said. “He needs help right now.”

“A man has no more character than he can command in a time of crisis.”

I went to him and braced under his arms, leading him to another set of bleachers not being used. I held him up, positioning him over a large garbage can, and he continued to lose what looked to be massive amounts of blood from his mouth. As I held him up, I knew that I couldn’t let him fall or he would choke to death on his own blood. Then I noticed the line of staples from just under his left ear, down to about mid-throat. I found out later that he had just had surgery to remove cancerous lymph nodes, as well as his tonsils. What had happened is the scab inside his throat blew out, and that area is so vascular, that the blood was literally flowing from his throat and mouth. And I had no idea how to stop it.

At that moment, his son, who had been playing baseball, came over to see his dad. He was crying and calling out to him. I told his mother to keep him and the other boys back from the scene. This was not something they should witness.

She came over to us, telling him 911 had been called. He seemed to wave her off as though he was telling her he was going to be okay. She said, “You’re a critical care nurse! What would you do?”

I was so far out of my element at this point, all I could think to do was talk to him, and help keep him as calm as possible. With every gasp, he was losing more blood, his hands and body shaking, his heart beating at a frantic pace – I could feel it as I held my hand on his back. I continued to speak calmly, “Help is on the way. Stay with me. I’m right here, and I’m not going to let you fall.” Inside I was anything but calm. I was scared to death that this poor man was going to bleed out right there in my arms. I felt so helpless.

“You can't relate to a superhero, to a superman, but you can identify with a real man who in times of crisis draws forth some extraordinary quality from within himself and triumphs but only after a struggle.”

When the first responders from the Fire Department arrived after what seemed like hours – it was probably 10 minutes or so – I was feeling incredibly relieved. “They’re here,” I told him. As they approached, I stepped back, giving way to the experts.

Suddenly everything went white and I couldn’t hear anything going on around me. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I knew I was going to pass out. I braced myself against the bleachers, struggling to gain composure. I didn’t want to become part of the problem! That poor man needed their help, and I didn’t want to distract any of their attention from him.

I was able to regain my bearings, and by that time the ball game was over and the boys were standing around watching the scene. I said something unintelligible to the wife, and took my son Trevor to the car. Once inside, I sat there and my emotions overwhelmed me. I shook and cried and had no idea if I had done the right thing. Was he going to be okay? Why didn’t I do more?

Fast forward two days to the boys’ next practice. I was anxious as I drove Trevor to the fields. I didn’t know the names of the people I had helped, and had no idea if he was okay. As we parked the car and walked to the field, I saw something that made my heart stop. Was it really them?

There, standing on the field talking with the coach, was the couple from two nights before. They turned and saw me, and the man walked over and we embraced. “I am so happy to see you!” I said as I hugged him tightly. He thanked me for what I did the other night, telling me he had no idea who was helping him, but that my voice helped him maintain whatever composure he had, and remain calm enough to not lose control of his accelerating heart rate.

I won’t tell you that I did anything heroic. Not even sure it was the right thing to do at the time. What I can tell you is that I did the only thing I could. I did my best to help another human being in trouble. Thank God, all worked out, and he is recovering. Oh, and their names are Dave and Janelle. And we talk at every game!

A Father's Love

This last Friday night, I had the opportunity to see something that brought pure joy to my heart - my son Trevor and his Little League team, The Rays, were playing for the Little League Championship. And, I almost missed it. Back up a couple of weeks... I had booked a speaking engagement for a Saturday morning breakfast meeting for a group of men in Sacramento, CA. I was planning on speaking to them on creating breakthrough relationships in all areas of life - from personal to professional. And, it was perfect because the evening before, my best friend was throwing a party to celebrate his oldest son's engagement - and he lives only a few miles from where I was scheduled to speak. "Great!" I thought, as I made plans to drive down the Friday evening before, attend the party, and speak the next morning before heading back to Reno. As the Little League season went on, Trevor's team continued to play well, and eventually earned the #2 seed going into their end-of-season tournament. They won their first two games, and wound up in the Championship game - which was, of course, the same night I was going to be in Sacramento celebrating with close friends. "That's okay," I reasoned to myself, as I made mental plans to drive down as previously decided. "I've been to most of his games this season, he'll understand if I'm not there for this one. Everyone else in the family will be there. Besides, if I wait to drive down after the game, I'll miss the party." At this point, the voice of reason was nowhere to be found. That is, until my wife mentioned it to me and asked what I was going to do. We discussed it very briefly, and honestly I was feeling selfish, and not wanting to budge on my position. She looked at me with great conviction in her eyes and quietly said, "I know what I would do. It's a no-brainer." And I knew she was right, which only made me want to dig my heels in a little more. It was a no-brainer. Decisions like that one can only be made in the heart, not the head. So, I decided I would stay for the game and leave as soon as it was over. I'll get there later than planned, but I'm sure there will still be people there. I was also going to meet with Lee, the man who asked me to speak to his group the next day, as he would be at the party. We would review some of the final details, and tie up any loose ends. Thursday night, as I was driving to a client meeting, I gave him a quick call to let him know of the change in plans. As we talked, I told him about my son's baseball game, and my desire to see him play. Of course, Lee was incredibly supportive and said he'd do the same thing. I said, "You know, Lee, I really feel the need to be there because when I was about 9 or 10 years old, my Little League team was playing for the city championship," the words stuck in my throat as they brought back some long-ago-forgotten hurt that still lurked in the shadows of memory, "and my dad wasn't there to see me play. And I was heartbroken." My voice cracked as I said those words, and the tears began to flow, as I was suddenly thrust back in time to that day when I was the same age as my boy... and my dad had let me down. And in that moment I knew. I had to be there. There was no question. Later that night, I was talking with some family friends, and telling them about my conversation and its impact on me. Their 12-year-old daughter said something to me that I'll never forget. She looked at me with wisdom well beyond her years, and said, "You know, you'll be changing your life by about 3 hours. But you may be changing his life forever." Well, game night came, and unfortunately Trevor's team came up short in the run column. They fought hard, and it was heartbreaking to see these little men, who battled all year, and wanted so badly to win, realize that for this year, at least, that dream was gone. I walked up to Trevor after the coach addressed the team, I gently placed my hand on his shoulder, and as he looked up at me I said, "Trevor, I am so proud of you!" And the tears that poured from his eyes broke my heart. And that's when I really knew - there was no way I could have ever missed this moment. It wasn't about the game. It was about this very moment... in sharing his heartbreak, and loving him, that I was truly showing him a father's love.

Choose Hope...

The images are stark - so much so, I struggle to find words to adequately describe the devastation. The destruction and chaos are undeniable and brutal. Like most of the rest of the world, for the last two weeks I have watched in disbelief and horror as the events in Japan have unfolded like some out-of-this-world disaster movie that simply cannot be real. And sadly, dreadfully, those events are exactly that - real. Unimaginable. Devastating.

In the span of just a few hours beginning at about 2:46 PM local time, the northern coast of Japan was rocked by an earthquake of magnitude 8.9, bludgeoned by a tsunami that killed thousands and swept away everything in its path - devastating the countryside miles inland - followed by the failure of a nuclear reactor which today continues to threaten the area for many miles around.

If it weren't happening in front of our eyes, we might tend to think it was a Hollywood disaster movie; one of epic - even Biblical - proportions. Every day it would seem that we are reminded of the forces of nature in some way. This reminder is of such magnitude that it shakes us to our core.

And, somehow in the midst of all this tragedy, destruction, and fear, we see the indelible mark of hope. It's present in the survivors who, even in the midst of hunger, thirst, homelessness, and uncertainty, continue to reach out to each other to help whenever and wherever possible. It's evident in the calm lines of people who are waiting for what little food, water, and shelter are available. It's present in the faces of people living in the shelters and in their words as they continue to focus not on what has happened to them, but rather on what they can do to begin the work of rebuilding their country.

"... the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

- Viktor E. Frankl, "Man's Search for Meaning," Holocaust survivor 

We know about stories of triumph that reach us through the news media - the teacher who helps rescue students trapped by raging waters inside a school, the freeing of a grandmother and grandson from the rubble where they were trapped for 9 days - and countless others that we may never hear of. What is most consoling to me, though, is the level of civility, calm, and outright hope for the future that seems to permeate the Japanese people despite the tragedy that has befallen them.

As I watch this compelling and life-affirming behavior, I have to wonder to myself, "Could I be this dignified, this consoling, this willing to help others were I in the same situation?" I would like to think yes. And at the same time, I hope that I never have to be put to that same test.

I think of how incongruent the scenes of devastation when played out in the midst of such loving sacrifice and contribution by those who have been so dramatically impacted. When I view my own challenges and frustrations through this lens, I realize I have so little to be truly angry or alarmed about, and so much to be grateful and hopeful about. It reminds me that truly, each and every day we have a choice in life. To choose sadness, victimization, self-pity, and anger, or to choose faith, service, happiness, and hope. What have you chosen up until now? What will you now choose?