Twelfth Angel

by Og Mandino

  During our third practice, at the other ball field behind Little League Park, we concentrated on hitting. I threw batting practice so long that my arm began to tremble as Bill made notes on his clipboard pad. Both of us stopped play often to correct batting stances, strides and swings. There was no doubt that Todd Stevenson, our star pitcher, was also our best batter. He hit several of my pitches out of the park, and his smooth left-handed swing was a joy to watch. Our catcher, Kimball, whom the players had already nicknamed Tank, also hit well, as did Paul Taylor and a tall boy, Justin Nurnberg, who looked like he might be our first-baseman during the games that Todd pitched. Then, when someone else pitched, we would put Todd at first base so that we’d still have his potent bat in the lineup, and we’d probably move Justin to the outfield, although he was a much better fielder at first.

  Eight players looked like certain starters, even after only the third practice session—Stevenson, Kimball, Zullo, Taylor, Nurnberg, Barrio, Murphy and a great fielder but weak hitter, Ben Rogers, who was a natural at shortstop. Three other players, Chris Lang, Jeff Gaston and Dick Andros, showed potential and were certain to get better with practice and experience. And then there was Timothy Noble, who had been the last to bat. I had tried to pitch the slowest possible balls to the little guy, but his stance was so awkward and his swing so choppy that I felt embarrassed for him as his new teammates giggled each time he swung at the ball and missed, until I turned and stared at them and it became very quiet.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. We had sent word home to all parents, via their sons, that we would not run any practice beyond six P.M. so that dinners could be planned accordingly. It was now five minutes to the hour. I clapped my hands together several times and yelled, “Okay, guys, that’s it for today. See you all Thursday, at four, on Little League Field!”

  Most of the boys immediately raced to the parking lot and their bikes or their waiting car ride home. Timothy, however, was still standing at the plate, looking very concerned, swinging the bat he was holding back and forth. I glanced toward the dugout where Bill was loading bats and helmets into one of the canvas bags. There was no one else on the diamond when I walked slowly toward the plate and said, “Timothy, can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he replied, his voice quivering slightly.

  “Timothy,” I said, “I believe that if you work very hard and put in some extra time and practice, you could become a good ballplayer. The more we practice something, the better we get at it. It’s kind of hard to work very long with one player when all the guys are here, but I think I can help you with your hitting and fielding if you let me. Tell me, would you be willing to spend an extra half hour after practice, just with me, concentrating on a few basics? I know that with a little work we can really improve that swing of yours, and maybe I can give you a few tips that will help you handle fly balls and grounders a lot easier. We have three more practices before the games begin. What do you say?”

  Knees bent, I had been crouched down so that I was talking to him at eye level, and for a brief moment as he took a half step forward I thought the little guy was going to leap into my arms.

  “I’d like that very much,” he said, biting on his lower lip.

  “Would your mother mind? Might mess up a couple of her evenings. Late dinners. What do you think?”

  “That would be okay. She works at Edd’s Supermarket in Concord and doesn’t get home until around eight o’clock. She works from eleven to seven, Monday through Saturday.”

  I didn’t understand why, but I found myself fighting to hold back tears.

  “Okay, Timothy, we’ll do it. How about tonight? Want to start right now?”

  His brown eyes opened wide, and for the first time I noticed the faint band of freckles that ran from one cheek to the other, across the bridge of his nose. He nodded vigorously.

  “And Timothy, we don’t have to say anything to the other kids. We wouldn’t want them to think I’m playing any favorites here, okay?”

  He nodded again.

  I turned toward the dugout. Bill West, although he was too far away to hear us, was watching and smiling. Finally, and before I could say anything, he said, “John, I’ll leave the bag with the baseballs and bats right here. You two have fun. I don’t think you’ll need me. I will see you both on Thursday.”

  “Good night, Bill.”

  VIII

  The Angels, as a team, made far more progress than either Bill or I had dared expect of them during our final three practice sessions in the ten days leading up to our first game. In all sports, I’m certain, the majority of coaches spend most of their time concentrating on the mechanics of playing well. Our challenge was to teach the fundamentals of fielding, hitting and running, as well as the rules of the game, to active, energetic youngsters who are at an age when concentration on any one subject for more than five minutes is usually a major achievement.

  During each of the practices we devoted the first hour to hitting and running the bases and the second hour to fielding and reviewing the playing rules. Beginning with the fourth practice, I asked Todd Stevenson, Paul Taylor, Charles Barrio, and Justin Nurnberg to come to the park thirty minutes before the others and to commence strengthening their pitching arms by throwing to either Bill or myself so that we could further evaluate their potential. Todd, of course, was without question our ace pitcher, while the other three would compete for spots in our pitching rotation. According to Bill West, both Taylor and Barrio had pitched at least one winning game during their previous season of play, and Nurnberg threw so hard that we couldn’t ignore him.

  For the batting sessions Bill and I split the pitching time, tossing soft throws across the plate while the other, standing off to the right of the batter, would make countless suggestions and corrections, ranging from having the youth try another and usually lighter bat to positioning him nearer or farther from the plate or showing him how to stride smoothly through the swing instead of lunging at the ball. Bill asked Paul Taylor, our muscular third-baseman and now pitching prospect, to try spreading his feet until they were as far apart as his shoulders were wide. With this more comfortable and solid batting stance, an enthusiastic and now-excited Paul began hitting long fly balls over the fence in center and left field. Ben Rogers, our shortstop and smooth fielder, seemed to chop down on every pitch, either missing the ball completely or driving it into the dirt. It amazed us that someone who fielded with such grace looked so awkward at the plate. We worked on leveling this quiet and unsmiling young man’s shoulders and hips just before he swung. Soon his bat was making much better contact. After hitting three consecutive long fly balls to center and left he caught one of my pitches flush, and I watched the ball sail down the left field line until it cleared the fence by at least ten feet. Dour Ben was actually smiling when he jogged past me to the outfield.

  To accomplish as much as possible in the limited time available, we also tried to combine base running with our fielding drills, stressing again and again how important it was for our base runners to know exactly where that baseball was at all times, since they should run the bases with as much aggressiveness as they could. We also worked on the fundamentals of bunting, and timed all our players with a stopwatch, again and again, not only from home plate to first base but also from first to second. Little Tony Zullo and Todd Stevenson were easily the fastest, while Tank Kimball, our catcher, took so long to get from first to second that Bob Murphy, our team comedian, said he was much too slow to be called Tank.

  The final thirty minutes of practice were devoted to reviewing the playing rules. We realized that there was no possible way we could cover every rule and subclause in the entire sixty-four pages of Little League Baseball Official Regulations and Playing Rules, but we concentrated on as many as possible, covering situations that we believed might arise again and again, such as why one should guard against getting hit by a ground ball as he is running the bases, when he can and cannot leave a base once he has reached it safely, and espe
cially what his demeanor should be toward spectators, opposing players and umpires, and the penalty for acting otherwise.

  Of course I now had an additional activity to help occupy my mind and a little more of my time: the practice sessions, one on one, with Timothy Noble after our regular team practice. On the afternoon following our third practice session, when he had both surprised and touched me by quickly accepting my offer of some additional coaching, the two of us first sat alone in the quiet dugout and had a long chat.

  “So tell me, Timothy, have you been playing baseball most of your life?”

  Sitting on the bench, quite close to me, his short legs didn’t reach the ground. He stared down at his dangling feet for several minutes before shaking his head slowly and replying, “No. My dad was in the army and we lived near Berlin in Germany for a long time, and the kids there all played soccer. I liked soccer, but I wasn’t very good. Couldn’t run fast enough. Then we came back to the United States last year, to live here in Boland, but pretty soon Dad went away from us and he never came back and my mother was sad. Then she got a divorce.”

  Again, as on the telephone, Timothy was speaking in a flat, emotionless monotone, sounding almost like a toy robot. My father is gone. There, I’ve told you. Now let’s not talk about that anymore.

  “So you’ve only been playing baseball for a year or so?”

  He nodded vigorously, brushed back loose strands of blond hair that had escaped his old baseball cap and smiled. Then he threw out his tiny chest, kicked forward with his two legs, clenched both fists, raised them above his head and shouted loudly, “But day by day, in every way, I’m getting better and better!”

  “What did you say?” I gasped.

  “Day by day in every way I’m getting better and better!”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. Impossible! I inhaled several times, trying to calm myself, unable to grasp how the little guy had just managed to repeat the very same powerful words that had once played such a vital role in my life. One of the greatest and most positive influences during my early years of corporate-ladder climbing had been a tiny book written by a turn-of-the-century French healer, Emil Coué, titled Self-Mastery Through Conscious Autosuggestion. Coué believed that he could help others rid themselves of nearly every affliction, from serious physical problems to negative mental attitudes, if they learned to make positive and healthy suggestions to themselves again and again. Coué eventually became a great cult figure, and his lectures attracted thousands, both in England and in the United States back in the early days of this century. Vast audiences listened and believed that it was possible to rid themselves of scores of life’s illnesses and wounds by merely repeating their positive goals and desires again and again. The Frenchman’s work was best exemplified by his most famous self-affirmation, “Day by day in every way I am getting better and better!” Millions repeated those words, aloud and to themselves, time after time, day after day, and so did I after I discovered them in a thin black-leather volume in a secondhand bookstore. That powerful self-affirmation worked for me. Primarily because I believed the words. They kept me optimistic and hopeful. My mental attitude, despite any temporary setbacks, always remained positive. I knew things would be better tomorrow. I was somebody! I would succeed! It was almost impossible to think negative thoughts while announcing to the world and to myself that “day by day in every way I am getting better and better!”

  Coué and his process of conscious autosuggestion faded from popularity long before the great depression, and he had his share of critics, as do all pioneers in the fields of medicine and psychology. But from my own experiences I knew that positive thoughts programmed into my subconscious mind through self-affirmations, either repeated aloud or to myself, produced positive results, and my favorite was “Day by day in every way I am getting better and better!”

  “Timothy,” I asked after I finally closed my mouth and took another deep breath, “where did you learn that saying?”

  He frowned and glanced at me suspiciously. Finally he said, “From Doc Messenger. He’s nice. He’s very old, but he always takes care of me and my mother when we get sick. When I saw him the last time, he played catch with me and told me if I kept saying those words, lots of times each day, I would get better at whatever I was doing, even playing baseball. Doc Messenger is nice. He comes to see me practice, sometimes.”

  “Oh, was he here today?”

  “Uh-huh. He was sitting behind first base all by himself. Today he was wearing a cowboy hat. He waved at me. He has a white beard.”

  “Has he taught you any other sayings?”

  Timothy nodded, threw out his small chest and said, “Never … never … never … never … never … never give up!”

  I knew that one too. Winston Churchill’s commencement address to a graduating class at Oxford. Eight words … eight very powerful words. Then the great man turned away from his audience and walked slowly back to his seat.

  “Do you believe those words, Timothy, that one should never give up?”

  He nodded. “I never give up.”

  We spent our first practice working on Timothy’s hitting. I would stand next to him, also holding a bat, and ask him to imitate my stance and swing. Worked better than I had hoped. After ten minutes or so I began pitching to him while correcting any variances in either his stance or his cut at the ball. Before long Timothy was taking short strides into my pitches with a level swing and even following through while maintaining his balance. He only made contact a few times, but I could see that his confidence was gradually building, and he seemed to be enjoying our routine. We even spent time practicing bunting, and although he had difficulty pivoting and keeping his arms relaxed, I finally had him crouching and bending his knees until he dropped several fine bunts down the third-base line.

  That evening, at home, I phoned Bill.

  “You okay?” he asked quickly, unable to hide his concern.

  “For the moment.”

  “How did it go with your little Angel?”

  “Fine. Fine. He’s getting better and better.…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Bill, I was wondering, are you familiar with a Doc Messenger in this town?”

  “Everybody is, John. Old Doc Messenger has practiced here for a long time. He was a big man on the staff at Johns Hopkins and came here to Boland after he retired—to grow a few tomatoes and hit some golf balls, he told everyone. Then Boland’s only doctor suddenly moved to Seattle, and this township had no one to take care of them, so the old man decided to come out of retirement and he’s been Boland’s savior ever since. Even makes house calls for sick kids and old folks. Why are you asking about him? Something wrong, John? Need a doctor?”

  “No, no. Timothy was telling me about the good doctor. Seems like he’s quite a special man. According to Timothy I guess he’s even come to a couple of our practices.”

  “I thought that was him sitting high up, back of first base, wearing that old hat of his. Never gave it another thought when we got busy. Didn’t figure him to be spending time at a Little League practice.”

  “Timothy said he came to see him.”

  “Well, since he probably helped deliver most of our team into this world, as well as the rest of the league, I imagine he’s keeping his eye on all of them. Quite a guy! Must be almost ninety, but he can still hit a golf ball a long way, believe me.”

  During our final two practice sessions Timothy and I worked on his fielding and base running. On fly balls I began by merely tossing them up into the air, coaching him to hold his hands over his head and catch the ball with both. After he had caught perhaps ten tossed balls in a row, I grabbed a bat, sent him out to shallow center field and began hitting gentle pop-ups. It seemed to take him far too much time to see the ball in flight before he moved toward it. I wondered if his eyesight was at fault, but he said he had been checked at school in May and they had told him that his vision was normal. Could it be his reflexes, perhaps? I didn’t know. Also
, his running was terribly slow, whether he was chasing after a fly ball or going from base to base, and the expression on his tiny face, when he ran, was always one of great effort. I finally asked him, “Timothy, does it hurt you to run?”

  “No,” he gasped. “I just keep trying to make my legs go faster, but they don’t. They will, though, you wait. They will. I’ll never give up … never! I’ll be faster!”

  Following our final preseason practice each player received his official Angel uniform, gray with the letter A in large dark-blue script on the left side of the shirt. The caps and socks were also in dark blue, and as Bill handed a box to each player, he said he hoped and prayed that he had measured everyone correctly.

  I was loading bats and balls into the canvas bags when I sensed that Timothy was standing close by.

  “Yes, Timothy?”

  “Mr. Harding, thank you very much for all your help. My mother said to tell you thank you for her too. I know I’m a better player now.” He grinned and then said, “Day by day … day by day.…”

  I smiled and extended my hand. “Good luck, all season. You’re going to do fine, trust me.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. I wanted to pick him up and hug him as I had always hugged Rick.

  “Good night, Mr. Harding.”

  “God bless, Timothy. Don’t forget. First game next Tuesday at five against the Yankees. Be here no later than four-fifteen.”

  I stood and watched until bike and rider turned the corner and were out of sight. Then I returned to the dugout and sat until long after darkness had fallen, praying to God for the strength to hold on.…