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When I saw Michelle in my Music Theory class I was smitten. She had long dark hair, wore long dresses, played guitar and sang, plus she even wore boots. That may not turn many guys on these days but each generation has its mode of dress and back in the seventies, this was a common young woman’s statement of I-am-my-own-person-with-something-to-say garb. The fact that she wasn’t a Christian didn’t deter me. Since I was new to the faith myself I took this as a challenge rather than a “No Trespassing” sign. Thus, I pursued her, got her to say a prayer of conversion, and then discovered something—it’s not fun seeing a mirror image of yourself. For example, she was very competitive in chess, bowling, and even music like I was. When she lost at the games she would sulk, like me, and even take the joy out of my winning, which was particularly irritating. She also, much to my chagrin, did not disband her folk group with two other guys, as I had suggested, and simply sing with me. Eventually, I saw the futility of a long-term relationship with her. Our personalities were just too much alike to be a compliment to one another--plus the fact her slippery spiritual path was beset with many compromises.

I can’t help it, but every time I cut the lawn, I smile. The reason is simple. I smell the wonderful odors of the grass and a wave of pleasant memories come flooding back about my favorite childhood pastime—playing baseball.

Hardball was reserved for the official baseball leagues, with my dad as coach, while neighborhood games meant softball every day, if it didn’t rain. All we needed was a tee shirt, a cap, a ball, gloves, and we were all set.

Mom excelled in the cookie department and gave a shout whenever her newest variety came out of the oven and needed consumption. Of course, they were quickly washed down with milk or juice in short order and then it was back to the business at hand.

When the official baseball season arrived, a freshly mowed field meant “real” games with nine kids on the team, uniforms, and ice cream cones at the local Dairy Queen, whether we won or lost. Although dad liked to win as much as all of us, he didn’t feel it was the only thing. If you played your best, regardless of the outcome, you deserved a reward.

There was camaraderie, too, and we all rooted for each other. We all had a goal to win and we knew we needed each other to accomplish that end. Ritchie Griffiths was our long ball slugger, Gary Portal our catcher, Gary Watkins our third baseman, and Stu Pratt our southpaw pitcher.

Some time in all our lives we all experience moments of disillusionment and disappointment, and like Peter, will be tempted "to go a fishing." (KJV John 21:3) After the crucifixion and his denials, Peter lost his vision and simply returned to the familiar. He probably thought, "I may not know a whole lot about this kingdom stuff but one thing I do know is how to fish." It was a place where he felt comfortable.

     Today, otherwise mature men, do something different when they are dissatisfied with their lot in life or their role in the kingdom. They join softball, basketball, or football church leagues. They'll remember their glory days from college or high school and fantasize about being stars again to try and earn back some self-respect. In other words, when they feel bad about themselves, they want to do something that will help them feel good again. Unfortunately, they think sports will do this for them.