Imitators of Christ
Jay Bell and Tom Hager
In partnership with Athletes For God
There I was, living out every kid's dream.
It was the bottom of the 9th inning, of Game 7 of the World Series, in front of nearly 50,000 screaming fans. And of all the people to be standing on third base, 90 feet from the winning run, there I was.
And with Luis Gonzalez coming up to bat, I knew there was a good chance I might be scoring the final run of the 2001 season. Only 10 World Series in history had ended with a walk-off win, and of the more than 19,000 players who have ever worn a Major League uniform, I was lucky enough to stand there with a chance to be number 11.
A lot of people remember what happened next. What they might not remember was what had happened just before. Moments earlier I was standing at first base, not third, feeling like I might have just cost our team the World Series.
Throughout Game 7 of the World Series I kept looking at the lineup card, trying to figure out where I might be used. We had a ton of great players on our roster, and with every situation it looked like there would be better options on the bench than me. The one scenario I forgot about was a bunt situation with men on first and second with no outs.
And of course, that's exactly what happened. Our manager Bob Brenly called my name, and I grabbed my bat and stepped up to the plate with one goal in mind - to advance the runners. Unfortunately my bunt was pretty mediocre, and Yankees closer Mariano Rivera bounced off the mound to throw out the runner at third base.
That was the one thing I didn't want to happen. A good bunt would have put runners at second and third with one out - an excellent shot, at the very least, of tying the game with a sac fly. Instead, the lead runner was out, and now I'm wondering if I had squandered a golden opportunity.
But I knew better than to count our team out. If you had watched the previous six games, you knew that it wasn't over until the last out.
Long before I ever stepped up to the plate in 2001, I was a 22-year-old, wondering if my career was already coming to an end.
It was a difficult time for me...my wife and I had only been married for two years, and of those 24 months we had spent 16 of them apart as I tried to start my MLB career. To make matters worse, I was on the verge of never playing baseball again. In my first season with some regular playing time, in 1987, I hit .216. That's not good, even for rookies, and then the next year I hit .218. It was around that time I told my wife to stay in school, because my baseball career was hanging on by a thread.
One thing I realized, however, was that Christ will use any scenario for His glory. Whether I struck out or hit a home run, He was going to be right there in the middle of everything. It was an easy concept to grasp when I accepted God into my heart at 10 years old, but it's another thing to do that when you are wondering if your career might be over.
Here's the honest truth: I don't think God cares whether or not I won a World Series. I think He is more concerned with how I would use each situation to honor Him. And for me, at that time, one of the big tests was not just how I was going to handle my adversity, but also how I would view my opponent.
Baseball is a game of adversaries. Pitcher vs. hitter. Runner vs. catcher. Manager vs. Manager. And when your paycheck depends on you beating your opponent, one of the temptations can be to view the competition as the enemy. Fortunately I had some great teammates like Don Gordon, Andre Thornton, Brett Butler, and Chris Bando who helped me build a solid Christian foundation as I started my career, and I was able to view the other players as someone to respect rather than to detest.
Philippians 2 talks about being imitators of Christ, and for each day of my 18-year career, that's what I tried to do. Each and every day I tried to imitate Christ, but I didn't make him my top priority. Rather, whenever I had a task at hand, whether it was taking batting practice or lifting weights or watching film, I was concentrating on that. The thing was, I wanted to make sure God was present in every activity I did.
The strategy paid off. I eventually turned that .217 batting average over my first two years into a 18-year career. I wasn't usually the greatest player on my teams, but I was good enough that in 1998, the Diamondbacks wanted to make me one of the original members of their organization.
When I was brought in, team owner Jerry Colangelo had a specific idea in mind - to be the Yankees of the West. The Yankees were admired for their tradition, legacy of winning, and doing things the right way. We want a team full of character, not characters, he told me. We just didn't realize that in our fourth season, with the World Series on the line, the Diamondbacks would be playing the Yankees.
But before that World Series took place, baseball stopped for a week as our country endured one of the greatest tragedies in our history.
On the morning of September 11, I was sleeping at home in Phoenix as my wife, Laura, took the kids to school. She came in and woke me up, telling me that a plane had crashed into one of the World Trade Center buildings, as she turned on the tv. We watched in horror as the second plane came in, and that moment just felt surreal.
I arrived at the ballpark that day, and found out that MLB had shut down play for a week. I spent time with my teammates, and we just prayed as a team for our country and for the families of the victims. A month later, I had a chance to see the devastation first hand.
During the World Series, when we had an off day, we went down to Ground Zero. As surreal as it felt watching the attacks on tv with Laura, it felt even more surreal to actually see where it had happened.
But God gave us an amazing trait - resilience. Our country rallied together on September 12, and I was able to witness that unity first-hand during Game 3 when George W. Bush threw out the first pitch. It didn't matter if you were a Democrat or Republican, there was something special about that throw. He threw it from the pitcher's mound as opposed to the grass up close, and it was right where the catcher had put his glove. You could sense the roar from the crowd as soon as it happened.
At that point our team was feeling pretty good too, because we had a 2-0 lead in the World Series. We understood that New York was rallying around their baseball team, but we couldn't just give them the series. That wouldn't be right.
The Yankees won Game 3, but in Game 4 we were on the verge of really taking control of the series. We were up 3-1 in the bottom of the ninth with our pitcher Byung Hyun Kim on the mound. The Yankees had a runner on first, but with two outs, Kim just needed one more out to finish it. Instead, Tino Martinez sent the first pitch of his at bat into the bleachers. Tie game.
We couldn't score in the top of the 10th, and then in the bottom of the 10th we brought Kim out again. He had pitched in the eighth and ninth, so we were asking a lot out of him, and unfortunately history repeated itself. Moments after the bell tolled, striking midnight of November 1, Derek Jeter took a pitch to right field and cleared the fence.
It was the most devastating loss I had been a part of. At least it was for nearly 24 hours.
The situation in Game 5 was nearly identical. A two-run lead in the ninth inning, with Kim at the mound. And once again two outs. We just needed one more good pitch to get Scott Brosius out and take a 3-2 series lead. Instead, Kim gave up another home run - his fifth earned run in two nights - to tie the game. As crazy as it must have seemed on television, Yankee Stadium was even more raucous in person. And it was all at Kim's expense.
A lot of players pretend not to be affected by adversity during the game. But when you blow the two biggest games of your life in a 24-hour span, it takes a toll. Kim crouched to the ground and put his hands on his cap in disbelief.
That's when our team had the opportunity to live out Philippians 2.
If we were going to be imitators of Christ, we needed to forgive Kim and lift him up - literally. Mark Grace, our first baseman, was the first one to greet Kim. Rather than criticize our pitcher over the three home runs, we showed that we cared about him. He was struggling as a player, but that moment wasn't about baseball.
The Yankees finished off that game in walk-off fashion again, so instead of winning Games 4 and 5 we were now returning to Phoenix with a 3-2 deficit. But our offense exploded for 15 runs in Game 6 to set up a decisive Game 7. And as it turned out, it was arguably the greatest game of all time.
When I got to first base in Game 7, there was a reason I was so flustered...and it wasn't just because the bunt didn't work. It was because you only got so many chances against Mariano Rivera.
At that point in his career, Mariano Rivera was nearly unhittable. The Yankees had won four of the last five World Series, and Rivera had played a role in each of them. His postseason ERA going into that game was 0.57. That's not a typo... 78.2 innings pitched, and a total of 6 earned runs.
But 1 Corinthians 10:31 says whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God, and my task at that point was to wipe the slate clean from the bunt and focus on rounding the bases. With one out and the lead runner at second base, I still represented the winning run. That goes beyond baseball too, wipe the slate clean and focus on the next task.
Tony Womack stepped up to the plate, and while he didn't always have the highest average, he had the clutch factor that whole playoffs. He smacked a double down the right field line, and as soon as I realized the ball wouldn't be caught, I took off. My teammate Midre Cummings raced around to tie the game at 2-2, and I pulled up at third. Bank One Ballpark, as it was known back then, was as loud as I had ever heard it.
At that point I wasn't thinking at all about the bunt. I was thinking that we could win this thing right here. With me standing at third and Tony at second base, Mariano hit the next batter to load the bases. Now our best hitter, Luis Gonzalez, was at the dish and the Yankees had nowhere to put him.
On an 0-1 count, with the country at the edge of their seats, Gonzalez blooped a shot just hard enough to get to the outfield. I put my hands over my head, clapping as I ran towards home for the final run. Waiting for me was Matt Williams, who besides myself was the other original Diamondback that the franchise brought in. It was the perfect conclusion to an amazing season.
Winning the World Series, especially after playing 14 seasons, was one of the best feelings of my life. That moment is something you always dream of, and I got to live it out. But that moment pales in comparison to my relationship with Jesus. When you look at things from an eternal perspective, winning a World Series can't compete with going to Heaven.
Now that I'm a manager, ironically for the Yankees organization, my goal is still the same. If I can be an imitator of Christ, maybe I can help others begin their own relationship with God. Knowing what God has done in my own life, I think it’s the greatest gift I can give.