Date: Wed, 27 APR 1994 21:59:08 -700 (MDT)

Well, I arrived at the Orem Elementary baseball field at about 6:30 last Friday night (04/22/94). Steve is in his first year of little league. This was his idea, (and his mothers) not mine. As I went to find a seat in the bleachers, I looked up and saw Bishop, Val and his wife Nancy sitting there.

(Pissssssst, I hate baseball, I think it is boring)

Steve's team had already had 3 up, 3 down, before I had parked the car and sat down. I should have written this down Saturday, because the details are already getting fuzzy.

Steve is a very smart kid, with an IQ 20 points higher than mine, (I would have been much higher but I lack certain fundamental memory skills.)

Well, Steve does lack common sense when it comes to staying out of trouble. He wants to be the person on stage, the man at the mic, the man at the plate hitting the home run, but somehow he thinks that this is going to happen by his mere appearance, and not by hard work, preparation, or even raw talent.

Now suddenly he wants to play Little league, almost all the kids on his team are younger than
him, and better than him, they did not skip years without playing, they have been groomed by their coaches and parents for years.

As I sat down by the Bishop and his wife, we started a light conversation, they asked what position Steve played. Their boy, Brandon, was playing second base even though he is two full years younger than Steve. Steve plays in the outfield. I told them that Steve sat in the dug out and guarded the water bucket. More truthfully, he willingly sat in the dugout and guarded his ego from embarrassment.

Speaking of embarrassment, the book I took with me to read during anticipated boring parts, they exist often in baseball, but never in basketball, was Mormon Polygamist Families, by my former neighbor Jessie Embry. I tried to chat with them, while not making it too obvious why I was sitting on my book.

Val is a very athletic person, we have played many basketball games together, over the last 10 years in this ward. By the way he owes me a ton of assists, but he is not a black whole compared to some men in our ward, (that is, you pass the ball in their vicinity but it never returns).

I call him Val even though we were recently counseled not to. Gee he is my own age, he is a nice guy, but I have my own theory as to why he was selected as our spiritual leader, but I still like him anyway.

I am not into hero worship, so I did not see Nancy as the "mother" of the ward, she is human and Val's wife. Val is also the Assistant Athletic director at BYU. One of the other parents asked Nancy, what was Val's job. After Nancy replied, I asked if this was a change from the past where the position could more accurately be described as the "Title du jour". Val has always been involved in BYU sports, but during the 10 years we have lived in the ward, he has worn many work hats. Nancy cheerfully laughed at my clever joke, and replied that he actually had that title for an entire year.

I did bring up with Val what it meant that new teams had been brought into the WAC, and I could see from his tone and facial features, that he started to give me the party line, I gave him back the look, oh come on now, Val if I wanted to hear the party line, I could subscribe to the Daily Harold and read it. He can trust me (I believe) not to talk out of school, as it were. He backtracked a little and started to explain his gut feeling of the addition of new teams to the WAC, instead of what he is employed to tell people.

After he finished I asked him how that compares and contrasts to the official version. And NO. I will not divulge any comments that he gave in private, not that I am that noble, but I don't remember them that well. (The intensity with which one speaks to me seems to be proportional to my ability to recall.) As we watched the game, and in particular Brandon, the Hale's 2nd child of three, Nancy explained that Brandon has a less competitive attitude of "must win" or be extremely upset, like his older brother Chris. I did learn by sitting with them that Nancy is a much more vocal and hyper Sports Fan, than I would have imagined from this rather, well mannered, well educated, elementary school music teacher, especially when it comes to her own children

Nancy also seemed to know the names of all the boys on all the teams and she remembers which team they were on last year and how they are doing compared to last year. She also kept stats on a fancy smancy booklet, and would ask Val to clarify what was an error and how to mark it down properly. I asked her if she got it at WallMart, and she kindly told me that she got it at Parks Sportsmen. I knew that. I was making a joke, can't anyone tell?

The game progressed and it was pretty close during one stretch, they got ahead 3 scores, I am not into baseball in the least, and I purposefully use the incorrect vernacular, in hopes that I may personally contribute to it's down fall, if by nothing else than boredom.

At one point in time, a pop fly was caught and the person running from home did not get to count his run or something like that, he couldn't even go back to third. It had to do with the infield fly rule. Val pointed out that the infield fly rule is the distinguishing unique knowledge that separates men from (implied in tone, the common) women.

Realizing that his wife was competent at figuring and interpreting the rule correctly, he quickly revised, that he knew it first and therefore was still qualified to wear the pants in the family.

All tongue in cheek, mind you.

The other team was ahead by 2 runs at the bottom or top of the 6th or last inning. At any rate, it was the last ups for either team. Stephen has mostly eleven year olds on his team and he is 12. At that point in the season, younger boys if not at all boys on the team were better than Steve at every aspect of baseball. They had won most of their games so far that year and you could see from their actions that the team was timid and intimidated and afraid of losing.

According to league rules each player has to sub in for at least 2 innings. They had gone through the lineup and were at the bottom of the batting order. The A's were down 1 point & had loaded the bases with the better batters and the bottom of the line up had given up 2 outs, WATCHING! Or should I say they stood up to the plate like wooden Indians, watching the ball fly by & pinning there hopes on the possibility of poor pitches and the grace of an inexperienced boy in blue.

Steve was next up & I was afraid that he was going to do the same. I struggled with what to say to him. I was very worried for him, as he left the warm up spot near us, in his clean unsullied uniform, bright white pants, dark green shirt, with yellow numbers (12) and a $13.00 woolen hat, order to size, though Steve had somehow ordered the wrong size and it was currently held snug to his head with a safety-pin.

The pitcher was big for a 12 year old, and he threw hard fast balls. I am acutely aware of the anxiety involved in sports and the potential of despair and exhilaration that comes into play in contests of this nature.

The 1st ball came hard and fast, the same as had put down the previous two players. From Steve's stance at the plate the pitcher apparently drew confidence as he went for the fast ball straight away. Steve watched it fly by and I grimaced as I searched for the correct words that would inspire confidence instead of setting up false or inflated expectations. "Ball" was the muffled reply and gesture, which I can never keep track of which hand means which. "GOOD JOB STEVE, WAY TO WATCH THE BALL" came the billowing intensity filled voice of his very committed and competitive coach. (A fellow basketball referee.) I could perceive, though I doubt that Steve could, that there was somewhat of a sales job included with that shout of praise.

I glanced nervously at Renee and could see some of that same intensity yet fear in her eyes as well. We were both aware of what this moment could mean to Steve's self-esteem, playing in-front of everyone and especially his Bishop, a sports fanatic & semi-famous local sports person.

"BE READY", I yelled to him, knowing that he should not rely on the pitcher or the easily swayed judgment of the youthful umpire. I felt safe with "be ready", it was not giving him pressure to swing at anything, but also carried with it an injunction to not just stand there watching. (That is put pressure on the pitcher that you are going to swing at a good pitch.) I said it very early so he would not have his mind on what I was saying as the ball approached, rather then concentrating on the ball.

The second pitch, Steve was better prepared. It was low & he pulled back in time to not strike at a bad pitch. "Ball Two".

I next glanced at Nancy & Val to determine where their loyalties were divided. I remembered that earlier Nancy had confided/bragged that she, as a fan, had learned over the years, the exact thing to yell to cause the young impressionable minds on the opposite team to swing regardless of the quality of the pitch. She claimed to only used it when their team was in direr circumstances of losing.

The third pitch was a little slower, but in the strike zone. Steve swung slowly and hesitantly & missed, of course, that is what happens when one lacks confidence and hesitates.

Again I struggled with what or IF to say anything. Not wanting to increase pressure and have Steve start thinking about how not to look bad loosing, rather then concentrating on when and how to win. The next pitch was still not as fast as the first two, the pitcher was trading speed for control. Steve saw it coming slower and swung this time with more confidence, he clipped the top of the ball with the bottom of his bat and it spun to the ground next to the catcher.

The catcher sprung to his feet flipping back his mask and searching frantically for the ball. There was conflicting shouting from our coaches to the player on third base, one run in and it is over time with us at the top of the batting order, an out and we lose by one point. There was a flurry of activity as the catcher located the ball, more shouting and the player on third returning to base, all the while with Steve standing in the third base line with a dazed look on his face. A seasoned player would have stepped back to allow the third base player a clear view of the catcher and the loose ball.

The dropped ball by the catcher must have unnerved the picture, his next pitch was slow but maybe outside, Steve again watched it go by, relying on the Ump to decide, that made the count full, 3 balls and two strikes.

Yes, the intensity for all parents was great as the picture hurled the last and decisive pitch fast and hard and on-line. Well, I must admit that baseball can have brief moments that resemble other true sports. Someone once said that Baseball is 3 minutes of action stretched out over 3 hours.

Again I held my tongue, wanting Steve's full concentration, on the pitch and not listening to me.

Nancy held her tongue as well, bless her soul. The ball appeared to curve outside and I hoped that Steve had noticed and of course the umpire as well. But then Steve stepped towards it and swung.

He connected, a solid hit, I leapt to my feet as my fast beating heart went into overdrive. Everyone was up out of their seats, this was the moment that everyone had sat bored through the 2 hours in anticipation of just such a situation, as the ball began its upwards gentle and moderately swift flight.

This was my Steve, my boy. The same boy who was last at bat, and last to sub in — by rule. As the ball continued on its assent, I reflected at the progress he had made in just that small portion of the season.

I reflected on the first team practice where I showed up to take him home, and observed him unnoticed, playing in the dirt with his hand, drawing lines as the rest of the team attentively hung on every word from the coach's mouth. And how I had tried to figure out why Steve was not paying attention to the coach. That is what I would have been doing.

I reflected on how his coach after the 2nd practice when I had gone up to talk with him and renew our previous acquaintance, as basketball referees, and tried to, ever so gingerly, explain Steve's lack of skill compare to kids younger than him. I tried to set expectations, to soften any let down Steve many have been in for.

I reflected on how Steve, innocently bragged about how the coach was impressed with his hitting ability, unaware of the attempt of self fulfilling psyche work the coach was trying on Steve.

I reflected on other ventures when Steve had so wanted to be in the spotlight but had not done the ground work. One such incident was a previous game a week or so before.

The A's had an early lead but when the subs had been put in, they fell behind in the waning moments.

By the way, the ball was still rising and heading over the first base man's head. It was going to be fair, All right! I was yelling my head off.

Anyway in the previous week's game, a high fly ball was hit to right field towards Steve. Initially he took a few steps forward and then as the ball climbed higher, he backup and went to the right. Not being able to back up fast enough he leapt only to hit the ball with the tip of his glove, the ball fell to the ground, and Steve pick it up and lobbed it to second, but the runner was safe. In the last inning that error crushed any possibility of a rally.

I yelled out, "good try Steve", but was not even given a glance. Steve looked down as other players shouted words of encouragement. Somehow the kids had picked up in his body language what I had not. The loss of courage became very evident as players moved slowly and overly cautiously, not actions that can effect a win, but actions that will not draw attention to one's inadequacy.

We hung around after the game and I raced Steve around the bases and tried to strike him out, in an effort to cheer him up. It was effort on my part, since I hated all aspects of baseball, I guess that is why Steve could only lob the ball from outfield rather than hurl it home. I don't much play catch with my boys. I easily beat him around the bases, he did not inherit the athletic Gene's from our side of the family. Steve was able to hit my pitches because they were slow, hey my dad NEVER played catch with me. But get a ball 9" in diameter and then things really change.

Well, the ball was clearly past the 1st basemen and NOT foul. My enthusiasm was softened as I realized just where the ball was traveling.

After we had goofed off for an hour I remembered that I was to be at my parents of cake and ice cream for my mother's birthday. Steve, Jim and I hurried over. This was the first time that the family had seen Steve in his sharp green and yellow A's uniform. Steve was slow to enter and had hardly stepped through the door when he bursts out crying. Many of my brothers and sisters and their kids were there. They were all taken back by his outbreak of emotion, for in our family we only cry at the death of family members and then only with much reserve. We explained that Steve was feeling bad because he had missed a fly ball. Most were at a loss as what to comment, since we just don't cry about sports, we get mad and fight and try harder, but we never cry.

Steve choked out the words "I can catch those," but it was the self rejection hidden behind his tears that spoke of self pride and insecurity at the same moment. I too grieved with Steve, for I have felt the anguish of letting one's team mates down or worse having one's team mates low opinion of you be validated by your actions. But I didn't let Steve know, of my sympathetic feeling, for I must pass on the family tradition, we don't cry when we lose.

The ball had at this point reached its apogee and began its rapid and sharp decent. It was not going over the fence, in fact it was headed directly for the right fielder.

As we left my parents house, my sibling rival, who could do no wrong in my parents eyes, MVP of the regional basketball tournament and All State basketball player (2nd team) and in my family's eyes the only reason that Delta made it to the state tournament and the major factor in taking 2nd place. Of course they still recount how if only the coach had played my brother in such and such a fashion we would have taken state. He went up to Steve when we were leaving and told him to not be so hard on himself. I was shocked, I don't think doing such, is in the unspoken family sports creed. But he said it just the same and he meant it. Steve did not realize the act of condensation of which he had been privileged, and shrugged it off rather easily.

The ball was not 10 feet from the right fielder. I wanted to yell and pressure the young player into dropping the ball, but the crowd was way too loud to actuate the attempt. (Such action is within our family sports creed, though one must always brace oneself for the inevitable elbow in the ribs or a whack upside the head from the in-law side of family)

I reflected on other moments when Steve's self esteem had been on the line. I so wanted this to be a confidence building experience.

Unfortunately, the ball came down squarely into the glove of the right fielder and he instinctively closed the mit onto the ball despite the pent up pressure of such a high hit ball.

The game was over and we had lost. The other team was exuberant and we were mildly disappointed. I tried to take a read on how Steve had taken this brush with destiny.

The thrill of hitting the ball in such extremely pressured situation, stayed with him, in-spite of the generally gloominess of his peers. I was glade for that.

I tried to build on any confidence that he may have gained, but lacked experience at verbalizing sincere interest in such a generally boring game.

Steve I love you and am so proud that you took the swing and hit the ball to boot. I have had the first part of this story written for over 2 months but could not finish it until today. I had the ending in mind, but something was still missing for the story to be complete.

Well, today it came to me whom I should be most proud of and what the true morel of the story is.

Yes, Steve did his part and destiny did its as well.

But Steve would not have not gotten to a full count and had a swing at familial immortality, if not for the wise decision of the Bishop's wife Nancy.

Yes, Nancy is the key mover and shaker here. She had a child on the other team, young and all the added pressures of an athletic father, with a high profile athletic career.

Nancy would have been totally justified in following her family creed and placing her magic verbal spell on Steve early on in the pitching count.

She had openly confided to having done it in other games, she knew just what to say to get into the inner psyche of a young child's mind, and she had the piercing voice and diaphragm support to get the job done.

This is the Elementary school Music teacher who, made it a point to the names of all her students that rotated through her large classes. She also knew the names of all the boys on her son's team and all the boy's names on the opposing teams. And just not that, but remember how they had progressed since last year.

Today Nancy is at the plate. A surgeon is at the mound and God presides behind the plate.

I learned last night that Nancy had some tests run and that she has a floating tumor in her stomach. A biopsy had revealed that it is malignant. Val was called back from the airport to return home. In fact last night I say the two of them walking past our house to deliver papers our neighbors who participate at their own level of comfort. At that time I had no idea of the situation that Nancy & Val were in. But if I think hard, I can almost make out a more sober countenance on Val than is customary, maybe even a little redness around the eyes. I didn't see into Nancy's face as they walked past my window. But this could be my imagination, best at this moment it seems real to me.

She went under the knife this morning September 2nd 1994 at 6:30 AM. I have not yet heard from ward members how it went, I don't wish to intrude, we will hear soon enough.

My thought as I finish this story is one of thanks towards Nancy.

She held my son's self esteem in the palm of her hand, and she choose to take the high road and let fate take its course unhampered.

If all of the acts of kindness and service that Nancy guilelessly performed could be gathered in a basket and placed on home plate as an offering for mercy from the umpire regardless of the talent of the doctors, and that could weigh more heavily than the timeliness of the discovery of the lump or progression or variety of the disease, then I would feel better.

Nancy has courageously stepped up to the plate and the doctors have made their best pitch.

But Cancer is no respector of persons and comes randomly, without regard of virtue or vice.

The count is full and the ball of cancer crosses before Nancy's life and she is helpless at the plate, being that she doesn't have a bat.

After all she did not ask to join this game and like all athletic nightmares finds herself mysteriously participation in a game, without all the equipment with which to control the outcome.

As the ball passes near the plate it is up to God to declare, "take your base" or "strike three".

I can only hope that the basket of good deeds is truly endowed with a force field effect and can cause the ball to veer outside the strike zone.

Regardless of the existence of mysterious powers beyond our control or understanding, know Nancy that I love you for the gift you gave to my boy Steve.

Ciao Perry

Date: Sun, 18 Sep 1994 20:30:39 +0100

From: "Perry L. Porter" <perrylp@infonaut.com>

Subject: Update on Nancy's health.

Last week I took a copy of Steve's moment at bat story to Chris Crawford who is best friends with the Hales, and told him he could share it with Nancy and Val whenever or if ever he felt it was appropriate.

Well, the Bishop (Val) came up to me as Renee and I were in the foyer sluffing Sunday school, We have (had) a built in excuse, Mary was asleep, and Val stuck out his hand and thanked me for sharing my story with him and his wife.

I was kind of shocked, first because usually Val does not seek me out to give compliments and usually only talks to me only when it is socially awkward NOT to.

He said he really liked it and asked if I did this often and if I wrote it down just after it happened?

I was not sure what he was driving at, after all Val usually does not inquire as to how I accomplish things. I usually don't accomplish anything and if I did, it would be very obvious to Val how I accomplished it.

I explained that I had written part of the story that day, part a week later and the ending 4 months later.

Oddly enough Renee was reading the story all the way through for the first time as we sat there. She was making corrections. I noticed that she sort-of covered the paper up as Val walked up.

I didn't cover up the Posts that I had taken to church to read it was small type and hard to read from a distance.

The other reason that I was surprised was that Chris had given the story to the Hales so soon.

When Val walked away Renee commented that I should not have given anyone the story without correcting it better. It reflected poorly on me and made me look dumb.

Well, after 30 something years I am over trying to keep up that false appearance, I reminded Renee that, keeping up appearances was not my motivation in writing the story.

Anyway Nancy's operation 2 weeks ago went well, but they were afraid that the cancer had spread because it was such a large tumor.

She is to start small dose Kimo Therapy this week and do it every month for a year.

I forgot to explain that the day after I wrote the story it was Fast Sunday and the ward was fasting for Nancy and believe it or not, two other people in the ward with cancer, But Nancy's illness was sudden, within a week and the Bishop's wife, thus raising our collective concern immediately.

We had fasted all day and church was at 3 and it was 6:30 PM and our family had traditionally been fairly liberal interpretation of fasting.

Mostly my fault, I often have a high metabolism and can get weak in the knees after skipping 1 meal let alone not having ate for almost 24 hours.

For once I tried to take the spiritual lead in the house, rather than leave it to fate.

I called the family around to read them experts of Steve's / Nancy's story before breaking our fast.

I had sort of planned it all day.

Well, the best laid plans of mice and men......

We were all hungry. The food was on the table and was starting to get cold, I read here & there and skipped ahead while trying to maintain coherency.

I kept getting those, "Do you really have to do this Dad", looks like I had given my father before me, whenever he tried to lay religion on me as a youth.

I got past the baseball part with only a few sheepish grins from Steve, being the center of the story, I monitored the glances from Tiscia and Steve every time I said anything that reflected on Steve.

Mary was also hungry and stared crying, then we would stop and then she would cry every time I stared to read.

As I was standing around in the halls waiting to literally collar any of my offspring that may be cross my path, during their weekly game of hall tag, Nancy came up to me.

This was her first time at church since she had found the cancer. Nancy was an athletic person, I can still picture her and Missy Crawford as they were dressed for a wildly fun and unorthodox Elder's quorum Halloween Party 10 years ago, Missy was dressed as a native, black makeup hair ratted, black tights, bone in the nose, leather skirt and COCONUTS!

Nancy, a little more tame, dressed as a wild cat, hair band with little ears, whiskers, and a body suit, of black and white Bengal tiger.

I remember the costumes of many people that night but the shapely image of those two resides in the part of my mind where the holy ghost gets nervious.

The Nancy before me now was not the image of the Halloween party, but a more haunting thin image.

Not that of a body harden and trimmed by hours of aerobics and fetish like house cleaning. Not the thin body of a marathon runner, where every ounce of fat is converted to muscle, but the body of a person that is ill and has not eaten well for weeks, and has lost all fat and muscle as well.

She came up to me, her eyes were already red, she had been greeting and thanking ward members all for their acts of kindness.

She looked me right in the eye, and I could hardly look her back, and she thanked me for the story and she said she was touched by it. My eyes welled up and she again reiterated, that it had touched her deeply, and thanked me for sharing it.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and that I hopped the best for her, but my story had done that, and this was the confirming moment, I was not able to speak. She gave me a hug and I hugger her back and then gave her an extra squeeze and our hearts almost touched physically, but definitely touched spiritually.

My heart aches as I worry what may be in store for her physically, but my mind is at ease, for her soul, it is my own that I must now tend to.

Ciao Perry Perrylp@infonaut.com (now, mailto:plporter@pobox.com)

    Correspondence regarding this page should be sent to perryp@pobox.com

Or if browser access only, try this web based mail form.

All opinions on Mormon Church History and Mormonism in general are mine and mine alone, and represent my thinking at this point in time, (subject to change based on better information).

All original writings of mine are just that, to reproduce, forward or use, parts or whole, you need to get permission from me first.

Spellings constructed for effect and to confound the ridged. ;)

©1996 by Perry L. Porter.  All copyrights are maintained by any parties (individual or corporate) which may have originally created any of the information or artwork contained herein.  If you see your work, and I've mistakenly not given you or your company credit, please E-mail me.  I'll gladly add the appropriate credit, if you feel it is necessary.

.

Back.