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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.

     Of course, I don't want to generalize here. There may be one or two that honestly have a chance at the Olympics and just need the practice. The "glory guys" are easy to spot though because they're the ones that get red in the face at the drop of a ball, scream at the umpire, kick up dust at the slightest provocation, and are depressed for a week when they don't win a game.  They also are the ones that get more passionate about their games than serving in their churches.

     "How do you know so much about this phenomenon?" you may ask. Well...several years ago I heard about our church's new softball team. I was not feeling great about myself at the time. I was in leadership in my church but my role was not clearly defined and I felt ineffective at what I was doing. I also had been working at the same job for six years and felt stagnant in my professional life. I was a perfect candidate for glorydayitis.

      When I saw the young guy who coached the team I couldn't contain my excitement, "Hey Jim, I heard we have a church softball team now?" "Yeah," he responded suspiciously. "But we've already had our first practice." I was baffled why his tone of voice didn't reflect the enthusiasm I expected. I tried to help him get more excited about the prospect of me joining his team. "You know, Jim, I used to play softball every day. Played shortstop in little league and Babe Ruth leagues. I was pretty good, really." Chuck looked at my 42 year old body and said, "Sure. Come on out for the next practice. We'll see what we can do."

     Immediately I recognized a new form of persecution - age discrimination. I was determined to fight against it. I knew I was good. After all, I had proof - the championship ball from little league was there on my desk with my season's average of .363 in large red letters.

     I then convinced my wife to buy me a new black leather Spaulding baseball mitt as an early birthday gift. Nights before the practice I lovingly rubbed in ointment to soften up the glove and I put a softball in it and wrapped a string around it so it would be ready to pull down sure base hits and hard grounders during the game.

      Okay. I admit my first practice before the game was not impressive. The greenhorn Coach put me in the outfield (I'm an infielder for crying out loud!) and in my zeal I ran full tilt for fly balls as they sailed a hundred feet over my head. Or, I would run around in a circle trying to get my bearings on the identified flying object only to sprint like a madman as the IFO plummeted to the earth. Then, not surprisingly, I found myself on the bench. Fortunately, the coach had a goal  to put everyone in who came for the game.

     When my turn came, I was assigned to catch. I quickly figured out this was the place where the coach felt the weaker players could do the least damage. I, of course, had never caught before in my life. The previous catcher gave me the facemask with the broken chinstrap and told me, "Just stick your jaw out. That will help keep the mask on your head." Much to my dismay, a short time later, a batter tipped the ball and it rocketed right into my chin. It hurt like you know what but I kept my mouth quiet. This was my only chance to be in the game. I tried to bite down and realized my jaw was now pitifully off track. I fought off visions of eating oatmeal and soup through a straw for the next three months.

     Then, the real humiliation occurred. I was finally up at bat. My mighty swings had only sliced the air. It was two strikes and I'm thrown a fastball. I miss again but the catcher drops it. The rules say if I can make to first base I can stay there. I know I can run fast and the potential embarrassment of striking out in softball (how can you miss something the size of a grapefruit???) propels me forward at a rapid pace. I am halfway to first base when I feel a pain the size of a softball hit my right hindquarter. I wince in pain but smile immediately knowing that now I must have a free pass to first base. Instead, I hear the voice of the umpire cry,"OUT!" I can't believe my ears. This fumbling catcher just threw the ball as fast as he could and hit me below the belt and I'm out. This is ludicrous. Unfair. Cruel. I try not to rub my injury on my way back to the bench.  Someone next to me explains, "You're out because you were in foul territory." In other words, if I had run down the baseline instead of widely to the right, I would have been awarded first base. All I can utter is,"Oh great. NOW they tell me!"

     For the record, I must say, throughout the season I did elevate my average to a respectable level. To my dismay, however, my coach didn't rely a lot on statistics and my playtime didn't change much.  I did finally convince the shortstop though in the championship game to trade with me and he replaced me in left field. Miraculously, the next two batters hit grounders to me, which I confidently threw out. The coach was impressed but still took me out of the game.

     I moved before the next season. When I called the church last summer I asked the coach, who two-timed as the church administrator, how the team was doing. He said they had so many people sign up that they had to split into two teams - according to age. I learned from one of the "older" guys they had whupped the young puppies good. Sadly, their win apparently had a downside. Many of the older guys were suffering from painful physical injuries.  Was it worth it for the older guys? I'd say no.

      But, if you are still determined to join the team...I just happen to have this black Spaulding baseball glove that's only been used eight times. I might be able to let it go for $35... No $30...No... I can't let it go. Its got my hard ball from little league in it. You know, the one with my .363 average on it with big red letters.

Thought to remember: The Bible says that we are taken from "glory to glory"(2Co. 3:18) not back to glory.