I guess because I know all too well how it feels to be “left out” I've developed a sort of empathy with the rejected and outcast. I know now during my tougher youthful experiences God was molding me into the person He intended me to be - long before I ever knew it. And because of those experiences I've always, (for as long as I can remember anyways) wanted to be an encourager to those that find themselves from time to time standing on the sidelines of life waiting and hoping to hear someone say “I pick you.”
I know that sounds like I'm saying ; poor little Dougie must have had it rough.....NOT!
Recently my wife, Dale and I were in Knoxville and we found ourselves driving throughout this town I grew up in. She rode quietly as I drove around looking at the places I had etched out my existence. Areas such as Strawberry Plains and Chipman Street, Fountain City and Whittle Springs. I drove for hours that morning sharing all my stories until I thought she was going to be physically sick from me rambling on and on. As we entered each neighborhood I began to tell her about this park, or that playground where we would gather together as kids to play sports and knock the crap out of each other, just 'cause we liked to do stuff like that back then. Your childhood probably has a lot of the same stories also.
We finally came to Christenberry Heights, (the government housing projects of my high school years) and as we turned up Tiberius Street the stories got a bit darker. The memories became more sensitive, and the feelings of being a “reject” started to creep back into my soul. For me anyway, it's hard to revisit the places of my youth without smelling those old smells, seeing those old faces, and feeling some of those old feelings that I thought had been long ago put to rest. I may be wrong here, but I think its okay to look back at our past as long as our vision doesn't get stuck there so long that we miss out on what God has in-store for us in the present.
We drove by the place I spent the greatest amount of my teenage years – the basketball court. I explained to her how I had worked hard on my basketball skills for two solid years in that small (two-thirds the normal size) gym we called our Rec. Center. I shared with her how in the beginning I sat out more games than I played – but how I would show up everyday regardless. I sat hour after hour watching and learning while waiting for the games to be over so I could run to one end of the court, grab a few loose balls and shoot them toward the goal for the entire three minutes before the next game started up. Yet, I never lost hope that somehow I would hear the words “I pick you” - but it was rarely ever the case.
Between the ages of thirteen and fifteen I began to grow as I reached the height of six-feet tall. Then, by the summer of 1975 I topped out at six-feet two inches and finally I was no longer the shortest guy in the gym. Simply being taller didn't necessarily translate into more playing time, but my determination never wavered. Finally it happened, I got “picked” to play in a men's summer basketball league (me, a mere fifteen year old, how bout that) with the team from our housing projects. I always believed I would get my chance to play sooner or later if I hung in there.
As it turned out something good happened to me while spending all that time in the gym. ONE - I got a heck of a lot better at playing basketball, and TWO - I avoided a lot of the trouble my friends found themselves in on the streets. I literally believe that my life today has been shaped through the game of basketball. For by being hidden within the fortress of the block walls of that Rec-Center I was spared a life in jail, or even worse. I avoided the fights and the arrests that so many of my so-called friends ended up in. Now, don't get me wrong - the gym life wasn't without it's own physical confrontations and issues, but it was still safer than the streets and the alleyways. This I know - I'm a better person for choosing sports over the streets way back then.
Anyway, back to the men's summer basketball league story. I was picked to play on that team for one reason, and one reason only; the guys knew, no matter what I would always show up for the games. After all, they had seen me come to the gym day after day for years with no real chance of playing. So they figured I had what it took for this role. I may have been nowhere close to their level of talent, but having me on the bench sure beat forfeiting a game if someone wasn't able to show up, or too many of them fouled out (which as it turned out, both happened quite a lot). Not to pat myself on the back here, (okay, maybe just a little) I had gotten much better over the years. With the added length I could finally dunk and though I still couldn't handle the ball very well in traffic I almost always got myself positioned to pull down a few rebounds. More importantly, I had become a very tough competitor – I simply had no choice.
I also figured out while sitting on the sidelines that I was never going to see much court time unless I could somehow find a way to bring something positive to the game to offset my weaknesses. Kind of like the process I'm going through today as I try and find meaningful employment in this down-turned economy we're in. Funny how in life, as in sports some things just don't change very much.
The summer league turned out to be a time of real growth for me in several areas of life. The fun part was that we got to ride in a police station-wagon to and from the games. Many times we were high from smoking a joint or two before Bob, (a detective and our coach) would arrive with that disapproving look on his face stemming from the aroma which lingered around us. For the most part we played hard, but we were a lot less organized than most of the teams. After all our practices came from a much shorter than regulation-size court, so we weren't nearly as good at running a full-court offense as the other teams. Oh yeah, we were normally high also which didn't help much either.
As expected, I only got to play a few precious minutes the first half of the season, and even those times were filled with strife. I forgot to mention that I was not only the only white guy on our team, but also the only Caucasian in the entire league of a hundred or more players. I was relentlessly booed and taunted by players and fans alike. The laughter, jokes, cussing and threats were only surpassed by the flagrant fouls that came my way when I finally got the chance to play. More often that not, I faced guys wanting to take cheap shots at me rather than play legitimate defense for whatever reason. I understood that most of the disdain vented my way really had nothing to do with me personally, but never-the-less it always seemed to rattle me.
I found it very hard to concentrate on playing because of all the distractions around me and everyone seemed to notice. Thank God for loyal teammates though! Time after time Squirt, Teddy, Jimmy, Rob and the others were willing to come to my rescue when some ignorant person (and I use that term in the most loving of ways) tried to physically take me out of the game. There were a few fights that came close to being out and out riots, but we survived each one and somehow managed to make it back to the same paddy-wagon we came in.
Regardless what you may think none of this is exaggerated, it's simply the way things were. Trust me, I could tell story after story to top that one if that were the case, with several of them involving my (too fearless for his own good) brother, Ed. There were far too many incidents where the bottom-line issue was indeed the color of one's skin. Where we came from toughness and weakness weren't defined by your skin color, it was in how you handled yourself while facing someone that figured they were tougher than you. Ed (who always was the tougher in those situations) will be the first to tell you, there was plenty of testing coming our way.
I found out, at least as it related to the basketball court you didn't cry out pick me, pick me when you didn't have what it took to handle the situation. That was a good way to not only get your butt kicked, but more importantly to never get picked to play again. You sat there, kept your mouth shut and tried to learn what you needed to know in order to get better before your time of true testing came. It was a simple process!
Now hold on, let me drag out my soapbox for a minute.... For me, there's a lot of that kind of thinking that should also apply to our ministry work as well. So often we want God to pick us to do this, or do that - when what He has planned for us is totally different than the vision we have for ourselves. Instead of being focused on learning the game better and patiently waiting for Him to say, "I pick you" we stand on the sidelines, jumping up and down, yelling at the top of our lungs, "pick me, pick me, pick me." Some of us get so frustrated when He doesn't pick us we either try and find a way to put ourselves in the game, or we run off looking for another game where we can get picked to play a little quicker. And yes, we really like it when we get to do the picking, now don't we?
Sitting, watching, learning, and getting ready - just ain't fun. We want to be playing. We want to show everyone just how good we are, (or more like it) how much "better" we are than rest the team. We're all about the competition and being the best, aren't we? You ever think about how much patience God must have in order to put up with us and our immature ways? Yeah, me neither, but we probably should I guess. I think we need to be reminded at times that He picks us, and it's not up to us to choose how or when He uses us. For too many of us we see God as being on our team, rather than us being on His team. Nuff said, as my wife puts it!
As Dale and I turned the corner in front of the apartment building where I once lived I pointed to the one on the opposite corner and told her how it had played a big part in the summer of 1975 for me. As I shared with her - me and a couple of my teammates walked through the front door of that apartment mid-morning one Saturday simply wanting to hang out with rest of the guys. We figured we would catch the Soul Train show, smoke a little weed, and talk sports – our favorite things to do back then. Robert, our six-feet six inch center (who was by far the nicest and most likable player on our team) was first through the door. As he walked in he tossed the basketball toward Squirt our team captain, but he didn't expect the pass. The ball flew by him knocking over a tall boy of malt liquor that Kennith (who wasn't on our team) had sitting on the table where they were playing cards. Everything went silent for a second and finally someone began to laugh – then everyone began to laugh - everyone that is except Kennith. This next part I can still see in my mind today just as plainly as I did that morning. Kennith got up, grabbed a large kitchen knife, and stabbed Robert straight through the chest before anyone could bat an eye. In a matter of a few brief ticks of the clock our world had been turned upside down.
Robert pushed his way pass me, (as I was still standing at the door) and ran for home. He only made it as far as the flagpole outside the Rec-Center and as we helplessly watched he slid to the base of it and died in a puddle of blood. This was my first, first-hand encounter with death, and boy was it ever a significant event in the life of this fifteen year old kid. Simply put, the rest of the summer was nothing but a blur.
By the time we played our next game the word had gotten around the league about Robert's death. We showed up for the game and none of us were high on anything. Most of us weren't even sure we wanted to be there. When the crowd saw that I was starting the game at the center position in Robert's place there wasn't a boo or cuss word to be heard. Coach Bob had talked with me about a worse case scenario, yet we were all shocked at the crowd's response. The opposing players patted me on the backside as if I were one of their own, and none of us ever looked back!
Here was this slow moving, six-feet two inch goofy looking white kid replacing an almost irreplaceable six-foot six inch giant of a man in an all black basketball league - and it no longer seemed to bother anyone in the gym. For on this day I think everyone realized I was playing for Robert and not in replacement of him.
That night I grabbed more rebounds than I had ever grabbed in a game. I made more passes than I had ever made in a game. I played with more determination that I had ever played with in a game and yes, I hit the last basket as we went on to win one of the few games we won all year. We all knew that it was a day to be remembered, not celebrated! And so goes the summer basketball league of 1975.
We may not admit it to ourselves very often, but it is true - there's a lot of responsibility that goes along with being “picked” that we know nothing about.
We can't see the future events, but He certainly can! In my case, what I found was that until I had experienced all that I experienced both on and off the basketball court that summer, I really wasn't ready to face what I eventually had to face. I found that I couldn't focus on playing basketball at the level I was capable of playing because of all the distractions - then I learned those things really didn't matter. More importantly I learned that the color of a person's skin didn't matter, yet it was what's in their heart that did. And I finally was able to put the racial issues of that era into perspective as I learned more than I cared to learn one Saturday morning about life and death.
So as it was way back then, it is still true today.
I think somehow we are way too focused on being "picked for this and that" when we need to focus on learning what it really means to be to be "picked by God". The hard truth is that sometimes we're just not ready to handle all the responsibility that comes with being chosen. Regardless of the lies we tell ourselves, or the false encouragement we get from the enemy, there are times in our lives and situations that may arise where we need more seasoning before were ready.
Let's face it, God's decision when and how to use us makes a lot more sense than the over-inflated vision we have of our own abilities. Our dreams of possible stardom, or our perception of how the game should be played need to take a backseat to His wisdom, and purpose. At some point we need to recognize that He has us exactly where He has us for a reason - whether we're in the game or not.
Today, I'm still benefiting from the lessons I learned thirty-four years ago in the depths of a government housing project. From this experience I'm reminded again that I need to always stay focused on learning while waiting for that moment when He looks me directly in the eyes, and says – "I pick you."
A couple of quick reminders in closing; Never forget, you've already been “picked” if you have accepted the offer to play on His team. Simply count your blessings whether you're in the game or riding the bench at this moment.
Be prepared to ignore the boos and the heckling from the world (and they'll most certainly come) when He puts you in the game. We have to be able to get past the distractions in order for us to play the way we're capable of playing.
I'm finding more and more everyday that holding onto His word will most certainly get us ready to be "picked" when our time comes. Doug
