Glorious Moment: Baseball as Eucatastrophe

I couldn't wait for the release of One Last Strike: Fifty Years in Baseball, Ten and a Half Games Back, and One Final Championship Season. The author, Tony La Russa, is the retired manager of the St. Louis Cardinals, and the book chronicles the remarkable 2011 Cardinal baseball season.

In order to understand my excitement, allow me to take you back thirty years.

Imagine an old farmhouse situated in a small Indiana town. My room on the second floor had no air conditioning. Sweaty hair plastered to my head despite whatever breeze came through my open window. On top of the heat, I suffered from vivid nightmares. Sleep never came easy unless I turned on my radio.

The local station carried Jack Buck's voice to my bedside. The smooth vocals of this legendary Cardinal play-by-play man relaxed me. My young heart soared every time Jack's inflection rose according to what happened on the field. The Cardinals might score a run, or Ozzie Smith—my favorite player—would make a spectacular defensive move. Eventually, I would drift off to sleep with a smile on my face and miss the end of the game.

Why the smile? Was it just the thrill of sports? Why did I feel so at peace? As an adult, I've often pondered these questions. Last season helped me realize that this feeling is not just nostalgia, or the appreciation of a player’s skill.

Baseball brings me, and others, moments of eucatastrophe.

J.R.R. Tolkien coined the term "eucatastrophe" in his essay, "On Fairy Stories." He writes,

"The consolation of fairy-stories, the joy of the happy ending: or more correctly of the good catastrophe, the sudden joyous 'turn': this joy, which is one of the things which fairy-stories can produce supremely well, is not essentially 'escapist', nor 'fugitive.' In its fairy-tale—or otherworld—setting, it is a sudden and miraculous grace…."

The 2011 baseball season qualified as a eucatastrophic moment for me. The end of August found the St. Louis Cardinals ten games out of the wild card playoff spot, an almost insurmountable gap in baseball. The team dug in, caught fire in September, and somehow found its way to the playoffs.

The Cardinals stormed into the World Series by beating the top-ranked Phillies and Brewers and having to face the Rangers. In a hard fought series, the Rangers took a three games to two lead in the best of seven. Then came the sixth game in St. Louis.

Enter David Freese, Cardinal third baseman.

Freese struggled early in his career, quit baseball, and got arrested for drunk driving. He cleaned up, returned, and found himself batting at the bottom of the ninth inning in game six. The Rangers led with a score of seven to five, but the Cardinals placed two runners on base with two outs.

Freese took two strikes, and the Cardinals' magical season seemed to be over. Time stopped. I stood up. I held my breath as the next pitch came to the plate. A crack of the bat sent the ball sailing off the right field wall. Two runs scored. Game tied. St. Louis is rocking Busch Stadium. I’m jumping around the room of a conference center states away from my childhood home.

A crazy tenth inning turned up the drama meter. Josh Hamilton crushed a two-run homer to put the Rangers back on top. The Cardinals stepped up to bat, plated one run, and came down to their last strike again. Lance Berkman laced a single to tie the game. The city of St. Louis, and me, lost our collective minds.

After the Rangers failed to score at the top of the eleventh, Freese walked to the plate in the bottom of the inning. He worked the pitch count to three balls and two strikes. The next pitch came at him. Years of batting practice took over as he launched the ball over the center field wall to win the game. Game over. My heart swelled in the joyful craziness. My eight-year-old boy-heart sang in exultation.

The Cardinals ended up winning game seven and completed one of the most remarkable late season comebacks in baseball history. Freese, the Cardinals of 2011, and baseball personified eucatastrophe.

*****

Teams work hard for the moment of glory. What seems easy, instant, and glorious is actually a product of dedicated effort, faithfulness, and training. The unexpected glory is present in the story.

This makes baseball a perfect illustration. We work hard at our particular callings. We experience moments of eucatastrophe when it all comes to fruition. We see the poor helped. We see beautiful art created. We see employees treated like images of God instead of "resources." These moments keep us going until the day of ultimate Eucatastrophe—when absolute joy will reign in all we do.

As I finish writing this, I've got my Cardinals jersey on, ready to watch the playoffs. Call me when October is over. I'm looking for eucatastrophe.