The Meaning of Loyalty (or, Why My Dad Became a Braves Fan)

by Ian McLoud

I grew up in Saginaw, Texas, a town whose only claim to something better than obscurity is its massive grain elevators - some of the biggest ever built, because this is Texas after all, and even small towns here need the biggest something to prove the Texas bravado. Anyway. I grew up in Texas.

Two sports existed in our household: football and baseball.  Nothing else counted.  Basketball is played by a bunch of “wannabe-gangster-thug-rappers,” or so my dad said. Hockey is just plain boring, unless Coach Bombay is there telling us all about the triple-deke, the flying V and quacking.

My dad, a man I admire more and more as I get older, was a fan of the Dallas Cowboys and the Texas Rangers. We never went to Cowboys games, but I remember the Ballpark at Arlington, in all its beautiful, green, majestic glory. I, however, wasn’t a Cowboys fan, or a Rangers fan. 

I was a Green Bay Packers fan and an Atlanta Braves fan. The Braves make sense; I spent summers in Georgia with my grandparents and when Grandpa went to bed, Grandma and I would stay up late and watch the Braves. Grandma would scream and scream at Chipper, Glavine, Maddux and Smoltz. Mostly Chipper, and often so loud I was afraid Grandpa would wake up and tell us to go to bed. I liked Green Bay because I was weird and also, one time they won a Super Bowl while I happened to be watching.

But my dad was a die-hard fan of Texas teams. Sundays in the fall meant the Cowboys were on. Summers meant talking about Rangers baseball.

So it struck me as really odd when, after a move to Georgia, my dad began rooting for the Falcons and the Braves. I understood the Braves because they’re awesome, but at the time, the Falcons were even worse than the Cowboys. I asked dad what was up with this sudden change of heart; he said something along the lines of, “We live in Georgia now,” and I probably made some crack about him needing to learn the meaning of loyalty.

As I get older though, I view that response differently. My dad, a former minister, was doing something that I now realize had an importance all its own: he was trying to relate to his new neighbors, new friends and a new church community. He was, to quote Paul, “becoming all things to all people.”  That may sound weird; all he did was change his allegiance to sports teams.

Big deal, who cares? But looking back, I can see how the people he met cared. He could converse with them about a subject that they both knew something about. No one in Georgia cared about the Rangers, or the Packers, or the majestic grain elevators of Saginaw, Texas. But they did care about the Falcons and most definitely the Braves.

My dad had this whole idea of understanding a new culture and building relationships that bridged the gap. He could relate to people in this new environment on a level that I simply couldn’t because I was stubbornly sticking to my Brett Favre (pre-Jets) loving ways. He could connect and build relationships whereas I was still an outsider. And from him, I learned the importance of culture and relationship building before it became the trend du jour. (Hey! My dad’s a Christian Hipster!)

He was acting out the all things to all people that Paul was talking about. And while I don’t think Paul was envisioning sports fandom exactly, still, it works. Especially in a society where our sports affiliation is seen as a key to our identity.

So yeah, my dad wasn’t loyal to the Cowboys or the Rangers. He’s not even really loyal to the Falcons or the Braves. But he’s loyal to God and to people. And sometimes, that means giving up things we desire in the pursuit of connecting with others. 

Ian is the Youth and Family Minister at the Lakehoma Church of Christ in Mustang, Oklahoma. You can follow him on Twitter @KindaScottish.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
 
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On Breaking the Slump

by Ben Howard

Over the winter, my favorite baseball team, the Atlanta Braves, signed free agent center fielder B.J. Upton to a five year contract worth $75 million dollars. It's the biggest contract the Braves have ever given to a free agent. I was a bit hesitant upon hearing the news, after all that is quite a large investment, but Upton has been a solid player over the last few years. He's fast, plays good defense, and has the ability to hit a lot number of home runs. He isn't quite a superstar, but he is only a step or two down from that.
 
Unfortunately, B.J. Upton has started this season playing terribly. Over the first two months of the Upton had a batting average of .144. That means he got a hit in 14.4% of his at bats. To put that in perspective, his career batting average is .250. 

In fact, there's a term in baseball called the Mendoza line which defines incompetent hitting. It's named for a notoriously bad hitter named Mario Mendoza who hit .200 for his career. If you hit below .200, it's essentially impossible for you to be a useful player. Upton was far below that.

But this isn't a story about a player who was once good suddenly becoming terrible, this is a story about slumping. Upton didn't suddenly forget how to play, nor did his skills erode to the point where he was overmatched; he was just in a slump. In fact, this month, he's hitting a relatively robust .234.

So how do you get out of a slump?

Some say it's a matter of confidence. Some say you just need to relax. Others have more interesting and off-the-wall suggestions (if you're brave, look up the term "slumpbuster"). Ultimately though there's no real solution. You're simply in a slump until you're out of it. It's part of the cyclical nature of sports and life in general.

The worst part of a slump is when a player begins to press. If you're unfamiliar with the phrase, pressing is when someone begins to put pressure on themselves to succeed. It typically involves over-thinking processes that were once instinctual. For example a baseball player starts to think about how to swing a bat instead of just swinging, or a basketball player starts to go through the step-by-step process of shooting instead of just shooting. At its worst, it can lead to the "yips" where a player can no longer perform simple actions that they've done for years (i.e. a catcher who's unable to throw the ball back to the pitcher).

I mention all of this because I'm in a slump right now and it feels like I'm pressing. The thoughts that used to come to my head easily are a chore and the words I want to communicate just aren't there. Instead of writing on instinct, I've been....well, I haven't been writing at all.

Since I don't know the best way to break a slump, I'm doing the best I know how and leaning into the curve; trying to overcome my writing slump by writing about it.

I've noticed a curious thing throughout my attempts to break out of this feeling. I've noticed the desire to try and copy myself. When I felt like I couldn't access an authentic version of myself, when I felt like I lost my voice, I would simply try and be the best imitation of myself that I could be. If I couldn't "be myself" then I'd try to "act like myself."

Think about that. Think about what that means.

It means that I thought that there was only one "authentic" version of myself that I needed to be all the time. It means that sometimes I thought I wasn't "me". That's impossible. I'm always me. Every part, every emotion, every happy moment, every sad moment, every moment when I have a voice and every moment when I feel like I've lost it, those are all me.

I'm sure you've heard that people show their true colors when they're angry or when they're sad or when they're afraid. Bullshit. People show their true colors all the time. They are always themselves. Every bit of them is authentically them, even when they're trying to lie and hide it.

But there's something in our psyche that tries to avoid that truth. There's something in our mind that would rather see clean narrative arcs and easily defined personalities. We want to be able to encapsulate people, we want to be able to encapsulate ourselves. For people we say that they're "Thoughtful, reflective and kind" or "Surly, arrogant and rude." For baseball players we tick off their batting average.

Here's the thing that I've learned about being in a slump. Slumps are as much a part of who I am as the peaks. B.J. Upton's performance as a baseball player is not defined by his average, it's defined by all the bits and pieces along the way that go into that computation. You aren't one thing, you are all the things across the spectrum that compose that encapsulated view of yourself.

We limit ourselves and others to the average version of us. We define ourselves against our relative norms, and then we judge ourselves to be lesser when we fall below those norms. Perhaps the best way to break a slump, or to be confident in ourselves, or simply love ourselves (and others) is simply to realize that we are always who we are whether we're slumping or peaking or anywhere in between.

Peace,
Ben

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87. 

 

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

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Roger Clemens and Christian Cliches

Roger Clemens

by Ben Howard

This is about sports. This is about sports, sort of.

The first time I heard about Roger Clemens was in 1997 when he was traded from the Boston Red Sox to the Toronto Blue Jays. I was 10 years old and I saw him on the cover of Baseball Weekly alongside Pat Hentgen and Juan Guzman, the Blue Jays other “aces.” This may seem like an innocuous memory, except for two important pieces of information: 1) I started seriously watching baseball in 1994, when I was 7 and 2) in 1997 Roger Clemens was, arguably, the best pitcher in the game.

Somehow, in my young mind, Roger Clemens didn’t exist until he was traded to the Blue Jays. His story wasn’t part of my narrative until that point and as a result, I have no direct awareness of the first 12 years of his career.

This came back to me a few years ago when, after announcing his retirement, Clemens decided to sign with the Houston Astros, a team close to his home. I wondered what it looked like or felt like to kids who were just getting into baseball for the first time, or really, anyone who was new to the game, anyone who hadn’t heard that particular story before.

What about someone who is just encountering Clemens now in this column for the very first time? What would they think about him if they did a little research? Would they see the story of the legendary pitcher or would they see the story of the disgraced former baseball player who’s post-career legacy has been marred by revelations about steroids and myriad court cases?

It reminds me that we always come into a story sideways. We all enter the story halfway through. Nobody starts at the beginning; you start in the present, live into the future, and slowly discover the past.

I bring this up because I think it’s something important to remember, and I think it’s something I need to constantly remind myself about. Not everyone knows the stories I know, not everyone knows the context, nor do I know the background to every story, even though I’m always ready to give an opinion.

Don't get this tattoo.

When I listen to sermons or read books or blog posts, I always stumble across these clichés. Some I’ve heard since I was old enough to remember and some have become more familiar as I’ve matured and sought out different theological spaces. You know them too, the preacher who mentions the four Greek words for love, the Hebrew names for God, people who say the word church means community (you can’t “go” to church), all sorts of trite, churchy things.

There are even new clichés; the friend who posts the Mr. Rogers quote about helping, the one who Jesus-jukes every conversation to starving children in Africa who need help, every single conversation that uses the word “othering.” 

I roll my eyes because I know they all have their flaws, and they all in some way miss some more subtle point that I’m interested in, but now I’m wondering if they’re necessary. I’m wondering that because we all come into the story sideways and maybe these kinds of clichés are the best gateway into a world which allows us to gain a deeper understanding. Someone, somewhere is hearing all of these groan-inducing clichés for the first time, and it’s resonating with them.

I’m part of this small group from my church that meets on Thursday nights. Most of us grew up in Christian homes and we’ve heard every Bible story probably a thousand times, a handful of us have even studied theology in school. As a result, it’s easy to make these snarky inside jokes about how different stories are told, and interpreted, and manipulated.

In the last year, a new girl joined our small group who didn’t have that background. She had never heard the stories in Genesis or the story of the Exodus or any of the stories outside of Jesus for that matter. One night we got to share the basic building blocks of the Old Testament narrative with her, and it was beautiful to watch someone engage with something like that for the first time. Something that felt so familiar and worn to me regained a sense of its awe-inspiring weirdness and beauty.

I wonder sometimes if my cynicism is bred by familiarity, if I’d be more loving, more caring, more accepting and humble if I remembered that people come into stories sideways. Too often I’m ready to dismiss everyone who doesn’t know what I know. That’s arrogance of the worst kind.

Good question

Everyone’s constantly learning, constantly discovering, and there is no honor in discrediting people because they didn’t learn or discover something before you. I mean, I’d never even heard of Roger Clemens.

Peace,

Ben

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.

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Opening Day: The Spectacle of Sport as Religious Festival

by Adam Metz 

I was one strike away from seeing a no-hitter for the first time, but, in the end, the game didn't count. It was April 6, 2007 in Cleveland, OH - Opening Day for my Cleveland Indians who were taking on the Seattle Mariners. My wife was about eight-months pregnant with our second child so we splurged on parking right across the street from the stadium. Our son was two years old and bundled up in his Ohio State winter coat, and an unusual spring snowstorm blew in off the coast of Lake Erie. It was colder than any football game I had ever been to. But it was tradition - our third consecutive trip to Opening Day, and so we made the most of it.

Paul Byrd was on the mound for the Indians, and through four and two-third innings, he had not surrendered a single hit. The snow was really coming down hard by this time, but Byrd had two strikes against the batter, meaning if he could get him out, and if the game had to be canceled, it would go down as a victory for the Indians who had scored in the previous inning. (In Major League Baseball, the losing team must have batted five innings for a game to be considered official). Busy trying to stay warm, Byrd's flirtation with a no-hitter was nearly lost on all of us in the fact that we were getting covered by the repeated snow squalls piling up on our ball caps. However, with two strikes, and the snow becoming nearly a whiteout, we all stood knowing that if Byrd could get this out, there was a good chance victory was ours! 

And then the unthinkable happened . . . Lou Piniella, manager of the Mariners, took a slow jaunt to talk to the umpire, and the next thing we knew, the umpires were calling the players off of the field. With one strike standing between us and an official game, Piniella had forced the hands of the umpire, and the game was never completed. None of the statistics from that game ever counted. Byrd's no-hitter wasn't meant to be. Neither was our Opening Day tradition that year. The next day, we were half way to Cleveland before we found out that the makeup game scheduled for that day was cancelled too. They ended up opening their home schedule in Milwaukee, WI. 

This year, Cleveland's home opener is on Monday, April 8, our family has our tickets, and by the way this spring has begun, I wouldn't say that another April snowstorm is out of the question. This will be our ninth straight Opening Day in Cleveland. All three of our kids have been there every year which probably sounds . . . weird. I guess it is. 

But there's something special about Opening Day. Even though six years ago we froze our butt off, it still summons images of spring and warmer weather. When you have winters like we do in Ohio, you need that optimism. It also makes me think that, just maybe, this is our year! Optimism abounds, not just with the weather, but thinking about the team's success. Do you know the Indians haven't won a World Series since 1954? So why not 2013? 

Opening Day is our first time to look at the new off-season signings, the rookies, and to see if some of the older players can keep their momentum going from last year. It's our family's annual festival . . . our pilgrimage. A few years ago, when our kids started school, we faced a dilemma: whether or not we should allow them to miss school for the sake of the tradition. In the book From Season to Season: Sports as American Religion, Joseph Price has an interesting article where he compares the Super Bowl to a religious festival. I think that Opening Day has become our family's religious festival - so we decided that the tradition superseded school. 

We don't worship the Indians or anything (I've even come to terms with how politically incorrect their team name is), but I'm realizing that our sporting events and traditions appeal to us at a religious level. In those parts of the Book of Leviticus we always skip over when we're doing a read-through-the-Bible-in-a-year program, the Mosaic Law prescribes the festivals that Israel is to celebrates: the Feast of Weeks, Feast of Trumpets, etc. What seems to have taken their place in our culture is the spectacle of the sporting events. Our rhythm of life largely follows the ebbs and flows of these events. 

Spring brings March Madness and a kind of first fruits celebration alongside the opening of the baseball season; the NBA and NHL Finals usher in the summer and a kind of Feast of Trumpets; the MLB All Star game still remains a summer Sabbath (one of my favorite fun facts it that the day before and the day after the All Star game - are the only days of the entire year when there isn't a major league baseball, basketball, hockey, or football game being played); the start to college and professional football season is a kind of Day of a Atonement where all the aggression on the football field bears witness to our sinful nature; and the Super Bowl remains chief of the festivals - a kind of New Year's celebration. 

It's unfortunate that we've created this dichotomy between the sacred and secular when it seems like so much of our world is a complex matrix of both. Sports may be the chief example. Sin is as prevalent in sports as it is anywhere else in our culture, but there is much there that is good as well. This Opening Day, my family will make our annual pilgrimage to a baseball game in Cleveland and we'll have baseball on our minds. But that's not all we'll have on our minds. Stanley Hauerwas offers a thought on the magnitude of the game of baseball: "It is not surprising that we will learn much about ourselves as Christians - what it means for us to survive as well as flourish as God's people - by attending to the relationship among our faith, baseball, and God." 

This year, Opening Day comes just on the heels of Easter. This year, our family will reflect on the renewal taking place in nature, the optimism of a clean slate for a new season, and hopefully convey to our kids that the message of Easter - of resurrection and life always being more powerful than crucifixion and death, is a message that finds relevancy even in baseball. Progressive Field isn't church . . . but I am convinced that there is much to be learned about God there. And so, Ms. Campese and Ms. Sheppard, you will just have to excuse our children from class that day, we have something important to teach them.

Adam is the minister of the Alum Creek Church of Christ in Lewis Center, OH where he lives with his wife Mary Beth and their three children: Clark, Clementine, and Cecilia. He is nearing completion of his Doctorate of Ministry at Fuller Seminary. His first love is working with teenagers, and he is trying as hard as possible to keep from growing up. You can find more of his writing at Theological Vacillation and  you can follow him on Twitter @CrasslyYours.

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