I swung at the third pitch and missed again. I struck out, and I know I lost us that game. All the kids slapped me on the helmet when I came back to the dugout, and I was so embarrassed. I felt like I really sucked.
But you didn’t single me out. You gave the same speech to everyone at the end of the game about team-work, perseverance, and swinging level.
The next week, we played Jefferson City. In the last inning, it was tied up at 3-3, and there were two outs. You pointed at me, and you pointed to the plate. All the other kids made noises at me and gave raspberries, but you handed me the helmet, told me to hustle, and to keep my eye on the ball, as always.
I got up to the plate, knocked the dust off my cleats, and spit on the ground. The pitch came in, and I wound up and swung. I whiffed it so hard, I almost fell down! Everyone laughed at me, and some of the kids on the other team started to chant “BAT-TER!” at me in a loud, annoying, monotone manner.
You still shouted at me to keep my eye on the ball and to focus. The next pitch came in, and I got a piece of it, but it went straight upwards and hit the ground beyond the foul line. Finally, you shouted at me, “Just bunt!” So I waited for the third pitch to come in, and I held the bat in the bunt position. When the ball came, I made sure to make contact with it and make it go fair. It bounced on the ground, but I didn’t see it because I made sure to take off running to first base.
The catcher came out and retrieved the ball and tagged the runner coming into home. I had lost us the game again.
The other kids shook their heads at me, but again, you didn’t lay any blame on me, and you didn’t express any regret at having given me a second chance at bat. I had my head down at the end of that day. But you stopped me and said, “Hey, Michelson—don’t feel bad. There is no shame in any outcome as long as you played the best you could.”
Coach, I never ended up being any good at baseball. You never started me again that season after those two games, but for giving me a fair chance I thank you. I played a little baseball in high school, and I played with friends in college, just for fun, nothing that serious. But I went on to have a great time in college and embark on a great career. I’m almost done with medical school now, and I’m going to be a surgeon.
I wanted to write and tell you this story because I remembered what you said at the end of the Jefferson City game. I kept playing baseball even though I wasn’t great at it, but I just did my best. When I decided to become a doctor, I knew that it would be expensive and difficult, but I knew that I could rise to the challenge, and I knew that being a doctor would be the best occupation that I could obtain for myself, despite the obstacles through which I would have to persevere.
I can’t help but think that your advice inspired me to aim high in my life, I guess is what I’m saying. I know it may sound strange to recap all of these old events. But I appreciate all of your guidance, and your call to perseverance, Coach, and I thought you deserved some recognition.
I was going to call you on the phone and tell you this, but I thought a letter would be something you could hold and look at and remember how you impacted one person’s life, probably in a way that you could not have foreseen at the time.
The truth is, Coach, I heard when I came home from vacation that you were in the hospital after having had a stroke. I know that it was severely debilitating, and I know you are at high risk for another stroke. What I don’t know is how many kids who played on your teams appreciate you the way I do. It’s awful that something bad has to happen to bring people together, so I don’t want you to think that that was the reason I’m contacting you today.
Coach, I know it might be crunch time, and these are things I thought you should know before there are no more innings to play. You inspired me, you affected my life, and you influenced me to keep trying no matter what the outcome.
I’m going to come and visit you at the hospital soon. Write me back if you can. I’ll talk to you really soon.
Your friend,
Bryce Michelson
P.S. Did you ever figure out who stole your New York Yankees cap that one time on April Fool’s Day? I’m pretty sure it was Sam Hoengardener. Maybe I’ll bring his goofy ass with me when I come and visit you. Get well soon, Coach!
CHAPTER TWELVE
PILLAR OF THE COMMUNITY
A test of a people is how it behaves toward the old. It is easy to love children. Even tyrants and dictators make a point of being fond of children. But the affection and care for the old, the incurable, the helpless are the true gold mines of a culture.
—Abraham J. Heschel
I became a priest in 2007. I always felt like I became a priest for the right reasons—I wasn’t running away from any problems, I didn’t need a position of authority because I was insecure, and I didn’t have any addictions or afflictions that I thought the priesthood would reform.
On the other hand, I didn’t particularly care which denomination I joined. It wasn’t the preaching element that called me to the position. What attracted me was the prospect that I could dedicate my daily life to acting on the call to “love thy neighbor.” I believe now and have always believed that it is easy to love humanity but to hate one’s neighbor. I made it my business to go out and minister to my own “neighbors” who were poor or alone or even just needed a sympathetic ear.
I had volunteered at Setton Palms retirement home and visited some of the residents who received particularly few visitors. One of these residents was Arnold Rossheimer. He was eighty-three years old and a Korean War veteran. An employee of Setton Palms told me Arnold was a famous architect in his younger career. I was intrigued, and I thought I would visit him and see if he needed company or spiritual guidance.
Arnold Rossheimer’s room was number 306, on the third floor of Setton Palms. When I first visited him, he asked the attendant if they brought me in because he was about to die. She looked exasperated with him and told him that I was just here to visit. Rossheimer laughed heartily at his own dark joke about his mortality. He welcomed me into his room and told me to sit down.
I told him that I had heard about his being a famous architect. He made a face, but then he opened up about it. He told me he loved designing and building buildings, but he thought his life’s work went unappreciated. He told me he excelled in school and went on to design for big businesses.
He asked if I’d ever been to the local library. I told him that I had gone by it a few times but was very well aware of the façade of the building. He told me he had designed that building, as well as the annex building and the atriums of two surrounding buildings. I was very familiar with that area of town. He said he had also designed the Stetson Bank building downtown and the Heimholz business complex on 61st Street. I told him, that I thought it was excellent work and that people used and appreciated those places every single day.
He shrugged. He said maybe people appreciated them at one time, but the city was dominated by new structures and artwork and was not as clean or as well kept as it used to be. He felt that people did not appreciate the older and more essential characteristics of the city, and he identified with that sentiment in his architecture. We talked for about an hour that day about ideals, beauty, value—things I remember talking about in college art classes. All the while, I had the idea that he had to tone down some of the subject matter so I could keep up with him. Never once did I get the idea that this man was unstable or experiencing symptoms of dementia.
I soon found that I was talking to a very deep person with a vast knowledge of science, physics, and spirituality. I asked him if he minded if I came back the next week, and he shrugged, gave a half smile, and told me I could. I thought he appreciated my company, and I found him fascinating.
The next week, when I came back, he started to tell me about the war, about how he had been lost for fifty-one days in central North Korea. He and two other soldiers were separated from their platoon after an attack, and they were operating as an outfit until they met contacts. He was the o
nly one of the three men to survive the experience of getting lost behind enemy lines.
He said he’d watched one of his friends get shot at point-blank range during the experience. It was a horrible, ghastly experience for him, but he never talked about it in an agitated manner, as if life had promised him something better or more glamorous. He put on a solemn face and eyes when he talked about the two other soldiers, because they were his friends. But he remained composed and optimistic in his storytelling.
I learned he finally met up with a platoon who had him flown out, and he was able to go home. He had only broken his nose and lost his left middle finger, he said in an almost relieved manner. He directed me to open his dresser drawer, and inside was his Purple Heart.
Rossheimer said his army experience was not something he regretted. He said he thought if he had stayed and remained an architect during the time of the war, maybe he could have remained relevant or had more influence on how our city appeared. I told him what faith says about using one’s talents, and he smiled and thanked me for the kind words, but I could tell he took the words with a grain of salt.
When I went home that night, I wrote a bit about Rossheimer’s experiences and said a prayer for him.
When I returned the next week, I entered the room and Rossheimer was standing looking out the window. I gave a greeting to him, but he did not turn around. I went over and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked at me and asked, with his half smile, “Who are you?”
I said to him, “Well, I’m Father Dean Clemens. We talk sometimes, don’t you know me?”
He replied, “No, but you’re welcome to stay. I don’t have many visitors these days.”
I felt awful because he might have been serious. He might have really forgotten who I was. We went on talking to each other about architecture, people, the world. I went on getting to know him. I bid him goodnight as friends do to one another when we left, and I had the parting impression that he eventually remembered who I was.
The attendant caught me on the way out and told me that a doctor had recently diagnosed Rossheimer as entering early stages of dementia. It broke my heart to see such an accomplished person have to suffer from such an affliction. I figured the least I could do was keep going and visiting him.
That’s what I did every week. Sometimes more than once, I went and heard a story or had a debate with Arnold Rossheimer. Sometimes he knew who I was, and sometimes he didn’t. It seemed there was a period of his life where everything was clear, and then suddenly a cut-off point where his experience became cloudy. He became frustrated with it only once in awhile, and only once did he become so angry that he lashed out.
It hurt me to see him like that—his mind deteriorating—but I stayed with him and was his friend, even when he didn’t know me. Attendants told me that it was in fact true that he had few other visitors. Most of his family had passed on, and he had only one son who was killed in an accident. Rossheimer was a genius in his time, but I could tell he felt outshone, washed-up, and forgotten by the people who once appreciated him.
In October of that year, after I had been going to see him for two months, Arnold Rossheimer died in his sleep of natural causes. I suppose God just called him at that moment.
I got the phone call the next afternoon. I wept on the spot, even though some of the other people at the rectory were around. I wasn’t ashamed to cry over the death of such a great man. I cried again after reading his obituary in the newspaper, along with the advertisement of his funeral.
The day of the funeral, the parking lots and surrounding areas were packed. People were crowded outside the church. The church was packed with people who were his friends from different places, positive acquaintances he had made, and distant relatives who had heard the word of his passing. I prepared to say the mass for him, and to give my own eulogy.
The first thing I did was say thank you to everyone, on the part of Arnold Rossheimer, for I secretly feared that his life of rich accomplishments and bravery would go unnoticed. I told them that Arnold Rossheimer would have been so happy to know that people from far and wide appreciated his work and his artistic values. I said to everyone that I had become his personal friend during the end of his life when his mind and sometimes his nerves were becoming frayed by a long, sometimes arduous life. I told everyone that Arnold Rossheimer was a genius and a person who changed our city for the best and that it was a fantastic and blessed thing that we could all be together to celebrate his life.
Everyone applauded at the end of my eulogy. The crowd followed the casket out the door and showed up again at the cemetery. There must have been a thousand people. Everyone was quiet and polite during the service but prone to erupt into spontaneous cheers and applause after mentions of his name. What a scene it was! This was the first funeral I had ever been to, or given, for that matter, that seemed like a celebration of someone’s life, rather than everyone suffering openly at the loss of a loved one.
Arnold Rossheimer was truly a genius and a hero. He had an intense spirituality and love of life, despite the suffering he went through, and despite the loneliness he was feeling at the end of his life. I was so happy to have been able to be part of his life, if for only a brief period. I started out visiting Rossheimer for my own reasons, but I ended up taking up for him.
I suppose that is what we are supposed to learn from the “love thy neighbor” commandment—that there is something valuable in everyone, something worth establishing, something worth celebrating. In his life, I did my best to support Arnold Rossheimer when he felt he had been forgotten. I would like to believe that I helped re-establish Rossheimer as a great person—a person who had influence on the world around him. In his death, I would like to believe that I celebrated Rossheimer the way he ought to have been celebrated—as a courageous, talented, charming, kindhearted child of God.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
REBIRTH
Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.
—Helen Keller
I’m Roger Brooks, and I’m fifty years old, since last Tuesday. I used to be a fighter in mixed martial arts competitions. I have a black belt in jujitsu, and I am an expert in capoeira and extension fighting.
Unfortunately, I am not able to fight competitively again, but I am thankful to be still alive. Before my accident, I didn’t know what I believed. I wasn’t sure if I was atheist or agnostic, or if I believed in God or something else. After my accident, I gained a more significant understanding of what it means to live and where to find true purpose in life.
I was kind of an excitement junkie. Bungee jumping, skydiving—you name it, that was my game. I loved to ride my Harley motorcycle down the long straightaways in Orlando—that was one of my favorite things.
One night, I was riding down Highway 50, and a taxicab came just a little bit too far into the intersection. I collided with the side of it at about 40 mph. I was propelled into the air like a rag doll, hit the top of my head on the hood of the taxicab, and fell directly on my lower spine. I found out later that witnesses who saw the accident said they were certain I was dead after it happened. Thankfully, I wasn’t dead. However, I was nearly completely paralyzed in my back and parts of my arms and legs. Doctors said I would never be able to walk again, let alone fight in competitions.
People say they have experiences during traumatic events like this. I’ve heard of people having out-of-body experiences, or meeting lost loved ones, or seeing a bright, vibrant light. I didn’t have any of these experiences. When I woke up in the hospital and the confusion settled in, I was not inspired or spiritually enlightened. I was angry. I felt useless. It was as if I had even less meaning in my life than before, and I was not certain where to even find meaning.
All I could do was say to myself, Oh no, oh no … I can’t reverse what just happened. I knew that my body, which I had worked so hard to maintain, was bent up and broken by blows worse than those inflicted by the most skilled fighters.
> That night, when my wife, Kelly, appeared in my hospital room, I was not even sure how long she was there before I could acknowledge and converse with her. I was unable to talk, even after I was conscious. I wanted her to know I was all right and that I loved her, but secretly I was profoundly unhappy and wondered if I would be a burden on everyone around me for the rest of my life.
I asked myself why the doctors even tried to save me if they knew I would be so useless. I felt that my life would be worthless and that continuing to live might just make me dislike myself more and more. I couldn’t be me—I couldn’t fight, and I for sure couldn’t ride a motorcycle anymore. The accident was almost like the opposite of a spiritual event for me—it made me have less faith.
I met with a physical rehabilitation physician at the direction of my doctor. The therapist’s name was Henry Moore. Dr. Moore was very no-nonsense. I wasn’t sure what he believed about God, but he, unlike other doctors who evaluated my condition, told me that I could walk again.
I asked him what had to happen, and he told me three things. First, he said I had to exercise. Second, he said I had to be willing to endure more pain. And third, he said I had to want to live. The first and second points were fine with me—exercise and enduring pain were already easy for me to do—but I asked him why he added that I had to want to live.
He responded that the body did not—could not—heal without the will to live. He said that if I didn’t want to live, I could be like this for my whole life.
This was difficult for me because I had so little hope that I could be the same person I was before. I had a hard time wanting to live.
I wasn’t sure if Dr. Moore knew this was a challenge for me. The therapy was grueling. Sometimes I would make little or no progress in a day. I would become frustrated because I knew what I wanted my limbs to do, but they would not cooperate. It made me so angry. I had taken so many things for granted about my body. But now I couldn’t move my fingers, let alone throw a good jab or strike. I couldn’t hug Kelly when she hugged me. My daily routines were embarrassing and humiliating. I was a 280-pound man who had to have someone brush his teeth, clean him, and help him use the bathroom.
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