Ninety-eight percent of all baseball players had a latent fear of getting hit in the head with a pitch. Sparky thought it was about damned time George found himself.
“Hey,” Sparky called out. “Chaplain. Can you come in here?”
Wendell Deyo walked into the office. Wendell became team chaplain in 1974—he was the first team chaplain the Cincinnati Reds ever had. It was his idea. Wendell had been an athlete in college—baseball, football, whatever he could play—and he found his faith when his best friend died in Vietnam. He found that in his own life,faith and sports blended together; he wanted to help athletes bridge the physical and the spiritual. He lived near Cincinnati, so he reached out to the Reds. It was, as they say, a mixed blessing.
“Hey, what the hell is this?” Joe Morgan shouted out when Wendell held his first chapel service in the Cincinnati clubhouse. Pete joined in the shouting, and it did not do much for the atmosphere. Wendell moved the chapel into the weight room, since none of the players ever went in there anyway. That did not calm things down much. After a few weeks, Dick Wagner—the man Cincinnati columnist Tom Callahan called “Howsam’s Halderman”—called Wendell to his office. Wagner started yelling before Wendell could sit down.
“What the fuck are you doing to my team?” he said by way of introduction. And then: “Listen, I come from a business where I once walked into my boss’s office, and he was screwing his secretary on his desk. You know what I did? I quietly backed away and walked out and never said another word about it. That’s my background. And that’s the kind of company we run here. And I don’t need you messing up my players with your talk about God. Am I being clear?”
Well, Wendell had to admit: Wagner was being clear. The Reds wanted an environment where bosses could diddle secretaries on desks without being sermonized. Still, Wendell stuck around—he had his mission. And he found that some players were beginning to seek him out. The player who reached out to him most was George Foster. The kid longed for peace. He longed for reason. And he also longed for playing time; Sparky would not let him off the bench.
“I can’t help you get playing time,” Wendell said. “But I can help you be closer to God and help you deal with what he has given you.” George understood. They became friends. Sparky knew it.
“Chaplain,” Sparky said as Wendell sat down, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Sparky.”
“I’m reading this here Bible, and they’re talking about all thesedemons. Matthew’s talking about demons. Are these like real demons, or are they like, you know, symbols for something?”
Wendell smiled. He had not expected a biblical question.
“Well, Sparky, I think they’re real. You know, there’s a war going on, good and evil, and the demons are evil, the evil that must be cast out.”
“Oh, sure,” Sparky said softly. “I see. You know, I try to read this Bible here, and I sometimes have questions. I’m hoping, if it’s okay, I can ask you some of those questions from time to time.”
“Of course, Sparky,” Wendell said, as he stood to leave. “Of course. Anytime.”
“Oh, Chaplain, one more thing,” Sparky said. Wendell turned. And Sparky said: “Don’t turn George Foster into a fucking religious freak. He’s fucking soft enough now.”
April 6, 1975
SHARONVILLE, OHIO
Sparky’s coaches hated the Sharonville Holiday Inn. Well, it just did not make any sense. Why in the hell were they living in a hotel in some bedroom community that was a pain-in-the-ass thirty-minute drive from Riverfront Stadium in downtown Cincinnati? There were perfectly good hotels right across the street from the ballpark. They were baseball men; it just didn’t make sense. Of course, the coaches did know why they were living out in Sharonville.
“Jeff’s there,” Sparky said. “And we go where Jeff goes.”
“But,” they
“Hey,” Sparky called out. “Chaplain. Can you come in here?”
Wendell Deyo walked into the office. Wendell became team chaplain in 1974—he was the first team chaplain the Cincinnati Reds ever had. It was his idea. Wendell had been an athlete in college—baseball, football, whatever he could play—and he found his faith when his best friend died in Vietnam. He found that in his own life,faith and sports blended together; he wanted to help athletes bridge the physical and the spiritual. He lived near Cincinnati, so he reached out to the Reds. It was, as they say, a mixed blessing.
“Hey, what the hell is this?” Joe Morgan shouted out when Wendell held his first chapel service in the Cincinnati clubhouse. Pete joined in the shouting, and it did not do much for the atmosphere. Wendell moved the chapel into the weight room, since none of the players ever went in there anyway. That did not calm things down much. After a few weeks, Dick Wagner—the man Cincinnati columnist Tom Callahan called “Howsam’s Halderman”—called Wendell to his office. Wagner started yelling before Wendell could sit down.
“What the fuck are you doing to my team?” he said by way of introduction. And then: “Listen, I come from a business where I once walked into my boss’s office, and he was screwing his secretary on his desk. You know what I did? I quietly backed away and walked out and never said another word about it. That’s my background. And that’s the kind of company we run here. And I don’t need you messing up my players with your talk about God. Am I being clear?”
Well, Wendell had to admit: Wagner was being clear. The Reds wanted an environment where bosses could diddle secretaries on desks without being sermonized. Still, Wendell stuck around—he had his mission. And he found that some players were beginning to seek him out. The player who reached out to him most was George Foster. The kid longed for peace. He longed for reason. And he also longed for playing time; Sparky would not let him off the bench.
“I can’t help you get playing time,” Wendell said. “But I can help you be closer to God and help you deal with what he has given you.” George understood. They became friends. Sparky knew it.
“Chaplain,” Sparky said as Wendell sat down, “can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Sparky.”
“I’m reading this here Bible, and they’re talking about all thesedemons. Matthew’s talking about demons. Are these like real demons, or are they like, you know, symbols for something?”
Wendell smiled. He had not expected a biblical question.
“Well, Sparky, I think they’re real. You know, there’s a war going on, good and evil, and the demons are evil, the evil that must be cast out.”
“Oh, sure,” Sparky said softly. “I see. You know, I try to read this Bible here, and I sometimes have questions. I’m hoping, if it’s okay, I can ask you some of those questions from time to time.”
“Of course, Sparky,” Wendell said, as he stood to leave. “Of course. Anytime.”
“Oh, Chaplain, one more thing,” Sparky said. Wendell turned. And Sparky said: “Don’t turn George Foster into a fucking religious freak. He’s fucking soft enough now.”
April 6, 1975
SHARONVILLE, OHIO
Sparky’s coaches hated the Sharonville Holiday Inn. Well, it just did not make any sense. Why in the hell were they living in a hotel in some bedroom community that was a pain-in-the-ass thirty-minute drive from Riverfront Stadium in downtown Cincinnati? There were perfectly good hotels right across the street from the ballpark. They were baseball men; it just didn’t make sense. Of course, the coaches did know why they were living out in Sharonville.
“Jeff’s there,” Sparky said. “And we go where Jeff goes.”
“But,” they
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