Starting and Closing

by John Smoltz

  Before that lunch with Walt Wiley at Bennigan’s, all I was really doing was putting up a good Christian front. From the outside, everything looked and sounded really good. On the inside, when it came down to my motivations, my reasons for doing things, it wasn’t adding up. I thought I was walking and living my life the way God wanted me to, but it really was the way I wanted to. What I was missing was the self-relying freedom and peace you get when you truly accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior. What I was missing was the knowledge that all I had to do was honor Him, please Him, and live for Him: Everything else was insignificant.

  When I think about the things I really believed back then, I just have to shake my head at myself. Like I used to think about heaven as if there was a fence separating who was in and who was out. I always envisioned myself on the chosen side. But in reality, I was no different from anybody who claimed that God didn’t exist at all, because I had not yet made a personal choice. I was more like a fish that was satisfied just to get pulled along by a current. What I hadn’t yet considered was that maybe the current wouldn’t take me where I wanted to go.

  I think I knew on some level that I didn’t have everything figured out when it came to my faith, but it was really people like Chaplain Walt Wiley who motivated me to do something about it. He made me realize that there’s more to being a Christian than just harboring good intentions in your heart. Good intentions will certainly get you somewhere in life, just not always where you intended.

  So back to Bennigan’s. I can remember sitting there and asking Walt, “Why can’t I live my life the way I want and then at forty years old turn it all over to God? You know, to that personal relationship you’re talking about.”

  And Walt just said, “Well, the problem is you might not get to the age of forty, you might only get to thirty-nine. You don’t know your expiration date.”

  It really was nothing more dramatic than that simple exchange of words. The lights just went on. It really was as simple as me sitting in Bennigan’s going, “That’s it.” Things just finally clicked for me and it was at that point right there that I decided I didn’t want to take chances with my life anymore. It was at that point that I basically said, “I hear you, God,” and my life started to change radically. I finally understood the relationship that was possible with Jesus Christ.

  Prior to that night, I was completely convinced that God put me here on earth and gave me a measure of talent, but everything else was up to me. I was always trying to bear the burdens of life myself, like a big backpack of junk. I’d wear that backpack every day and keep stuffing crud into it until it wore deep grooves into my shoulders. I’d empty it out sometimes, but the reality was that it always filled back up—whether it was my emotions on the field, or dealing with people, or getting ripped or wronged in the papers, I carried all of it around and tried to endure it all myself. The perspective that I gained at Bennigan’s was really finally understanding and experiencing the freedom of giving everything—everything that I was trying so hard to handle on my own—to Him.

  My life was completely different after that day. It was seriously like the difference between night and day. Pitching was different. Flying was different. The fear of things was gone; the fear of the unknown was gone. I had always wanted to control everything I could, but it finally just sank in to my brain that there are precious few things in life I could actually control. None of us has any control over those nightmarish, “what if?” scenarios in life, like a drunk driver crossing the center line, or a house fire caused by a lightning strike, or a tornado ripping through a town in the middle of the night. Nobody ever intends for these things to happen, but from time to time they do. That day at Bennigan’s, I finally relinquished control over my life—something I had previously held on to with a kung fu grip. I finally surrendered myself to the power of God, and by doing so, I was finally able to know and experience the presence and peace of God that I had always heard about.

  It is no coincidence that the very next year, 1996, would be the best year of my entire career. Nineteen ninety-six was truly a magical year. I remember even in spring training I just had this feeling in my heart, this newfound confidence. For some reason, I just knew that I was going to be a different pitcher on the mound. I’m really not a boastful guy at all, but I remember telling the guys at one point, “Okay, Maddux had a nice run, but it’s my turn now.” I didn’t mean to say that I felt like I was suddenly better than Greg, but I just felt incredibly healthy and free. Around that same time I also told a group of reporters, “You’re going to see a different guy.” They really didn’t know what I was talking about, but I told them, “I may lose my first one and win my next fourteen, but you’re going to see a different guy out there.” And that’s what happened. I lost my first one and won my next fourteen. I went on to win twenty-four games and the National League’s Cy Young Award.

  Now, I’m not saying becoming a Christian armed me with some kind of supernatural prophetic abilities. And I’m certainly not saying I won the Cy Young because I accepted Christ. I won the Cy Young because I got freed up; I had given my big backpack of junk to God. Physically I was doing nothing different than what I had done in ’91 or ’92 or ’93, and so on. The difference was all on the inside: in my heart, in my mind, in what I was feeling. If you look back on my career before ’96, I had managed to string together a couple of good seasons, but it was always a constant struggle for me, thanks to my skewed perspective and my good old backpack of junk. Becoming a Christian allowed me to find peace and become the pitcher I always knew I could be. I’d always had a strong arm; now I finally had a strong faith to match.

  Now, don’t get the wrong impression here; it’s not like I had this perfect peace in my heart and on the mound after that day at Bennigan’s. It wasn’t like that at all; I was tested. I faced the same sort of adversities I had always faced, but as a Christian, I was better able to keep my mind at peace. There were still times when I wasn’t able to control my thoughts; I got mad; I got double-minded on occasion.

  The Bible talks about being double-minded in the sense that you can’t serve two masters at once: the world, man, money, God, you name it. It’s the first commandment—“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me”—and it’s expanded upon in other scriptures as well, such as Luke 16 in the parable of the Shrewd Manager. The gist of it is, you can’t value your possessions, your money, your power, as you do God. When you do so, you’re being double-minded and you’re liable to be unstable in all your ways, as the Bible tell us in James 1:8.

  When I was double-minded on the mound, thinking about other things I shouldn’t have been thinking about, I didn’t have a lot of good results. On the other hand, when I was clear in my objective that I was going to do the best I could, pour everything I had into it, and leave everything on the field, more often than not I was able to do exactly that. This to me was honoring God in a warrior’s way, a way that said, “This is what He expects.”

  People sometimes ask me if I ever prayed on the mound, and if I did, what was I praying for? Now, I don’t claim to have all the answers, or to have done all things the right way, but I always believed that when I needed to pray for something, I should pray for a chance to set a good example. I never felt myself on the mound going, Okay, God, I really need this slider down and away. I never did any of that. The only time I felt compelled to ask God for help when it came to baseball was on days when I didn’t feel good, when I was physically hurting. On those days, I would pray something like Lord, I just want to be able to do my best. Allow me to have peace in what I’m doing.

  I didn’t pray for success; I didn’t pray for failure for the other team. I didn’t do any of that stuff. When it comes to athletes, I think God wants us be warriors. We are to train ourselves in such a way that there are no excuses and no alibis. And whatever happens, happens. You’re trained in a way to glorify Him. He’s not helping you pull a ball foul any more than he’s helping you throw a strike. When I would step off t
he mound and try to refocus and clear my mind, I was doing exactly that—trying to refocus and clear my mind. It wasn’t anything more than that.

  Now, I’m not going to lie: I have prayed on roller coasters. You know like, Please Lord, let me get through this because I don’t think I’m going to make it—those kind of prayers. But when it came to lacing up my shoes and buttoning up my uniform, my prayers were for peace and the concentration that I needed, the commitment to whatever I was doing. That’s it.

  My faith sustained me for the rest of my career in a way no other thing could have done. I don’t make light at all of the fact that the one thing that allowed me to persevere through some of my toughest moments was my faith. When you consider the pressure of playing baseball, and then you add on everything else that I was always carrying in my backpack before that meal at Bennigan’s, I’m telling you, there isn’t a human alive who can withstand all that over time. Thankfully, I didn’t have to anymore.

  So that’s the “drastic” change. How simple it was, yet how complex it can be at the same time. For a long time I used to think, Gosh, I’ve got a boring testimony. Okay, so maybe it’s not boring, but it is what it is. I think a lot of people have this perception that you’ve got to clean up to get God. I didn’t have to clean up to go get God. I just had to keep searching until I found the answers that made sense to me and were consistent with what the Bible says. It was a wayward and, at times, prolonged journey, but I will always be thankful that I finally made it home.

  Speaking of journeys, this would hardly be a complete accounting of my own journey if I didn’t share a little bit about what it’s like to be a born-again Christian on a pro baseball team. Well, the short answer is that it’s not easy. I always felt like the Christian guys … well, we had to find our own niche. I didn’t ever try to beat guys over the head about my beliefs; I just tried to be a quiet witness and example for God. Thankfully, I never felt the urge to attempt to convert the entire locker room—that would have been extremely ill-advised. But at the same time I tried hard never to shy away from openings to talk about what I believed. And let me tell you, one of the hardest things I ever had to do was to share in front of my team.

  The most memorable time that I had a chance to witness was when I was asked to lead the chapel service during a West Coast road trip. It was some scheduling thing where the chaplain just couldn’t make it. I was nervous about it. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say or how I was going to say it. I was still kicking around ideas in the back of my mind during our flight to Denver, when the pilot came on the intercom and said, “Guys, we’ve got a problem here, I need everybody to buckle up. We’re going to have to make an emergency landing. We don’t know how bad it is, but we’ll know when we land. You’re going to see some emergency vehicles on the runway as we come in, just in case.”

  Now, let me tell you, flying on a charter flight with a pro baseball team isn’t anything like “normal” air travel. Let’s just say nobody makes us keep our seat belts fastened while we are seated, even though the captain has turned on the “fasten your seat belt” sign. It can get a little, shall we say, festive on occasion. Anyway, when the pilot came on and delivered the news, our entire plane sobered up in a hurry. The card playing, movie watching, and aisle skiing all abruptly ended. Guys were nervous, worried. You could see it in their faces as they looked out the windows in anticipation of landing.

  Apparently there was a problem with the plane’s rudder, and had it been a little windier, as it usually is in Denver, there could have been some issues with steering the plane down. But as it was, the winds were calm and we landed with no problem.

  The next day, baseball chapel happened to be scheduled. Predictably, after that flight, a record crowd showed up. Maybe some guys were keeping hastily made promises after the pilot’s announcement; I don’t know. I just knew that by then I wasn’t nervous about leading the service. When it came time to deliver the sermon, I just started talking about the plane ride:

  So when the pilot came on the air, what was the first thing you thought about? What is the first thing that came to your mind? Maybe, am I in good graces with my kids? My wife? Is everything in order? You know, all those things. Well, do you want to know the first thing that came to my mind? The first thing that came to my mind was “I’m all right. If this is my last flight—now, I sure hope it isn’t—but if this is my last flight, everything’s okay.” I’m all right with God and I’m at peace with whatever happens. All of those other things are nice and I sure hope my stuff is in order, but the main thing is I’m all right with God.

  I just shared what I honestly felt in my heart and guys were like, “Wow.” My message seemed to resonate with the team.

  I’m certainly proud of the things that I accomplished as a member of the Atlanta Braves. I’m proud that my legacy is a favorable one, and one associated with great games—both wins and losses. But, with that said, if I could pick one thing, one moment that the guys I played with remembered me for, I would pick this service over any of my so-called achievements on the field. Stats and win-loss records might matter for induction into the Hall of Fame, but they’re pretty worthless for induction into heaven. If I encouraged just one of my teammates to keep walking along in his own journey of faith, that would mean way more to me.

  My journey, my evolution in Christianity, if you will, was a process that really spanned from 1988, when I first entered the big leagues, to 1995. A lot of influential people had a hand in really getting me to that full understanding and commitment to Jesus Christ. First, there were my parents, who not only allowed me to pursue the career that I wanted to pursue, but also laid the foundation for my faith and were always there for me, encouraging me, but allowing me to experience things on my own.

  In Atlanta, I was extremely fortunate to be surrounded by great teammates and chaplains who took this sort of caretaking mentality toward me. They saw the man I was and also the Christian that I could be. They led me and inspired me in such a way that I finally found my own path. It was a freeing experience and one for which I can only thank God.

  My journey from becoming a Christian to today never ends. I’m a work in progress and it seems like with every year that goes by, I’m learning something new. (And sometimes it’s stuff I think I should have learned a long time ago, to be quite honest.) People can speculate about whatever it is I’m trying to do, or who I am, or what I’m trying to be. It really still boils down to a few basic truths: Whatever I do, I’m passionate about. I’m a guy who doesn’t just have opinions, but thinks very strongly about them. And everything that’s happened to me in my life is real, authentic, and it is what it is. My hope today is that my ability on the baseball field takes a backseat to the man that I have become, which includes all the mistakes that I’ve made, that I know are paid for, and the mistakes I’ll continue to make. (Hopefully, they at least won’t be the same ones.)

  I don’t have all the answers, nor do I claim to. I can’t tell you what to believe, where to look, or what questions to ask, but I can tell you this: Finding God is the most important thing you will ever do in your life. I encourage you to start your walk today if you haven’t started already. Join a church, speak to a Christian you know, seek out a pastor or minister or priest that you feel comfortable with. Ask questions, discuss the things you think believe, find your answers. It will not be easy, but I promise you will not be alone. God will help you find your way; witness Jeremiah 29:13: “You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart.”

  I pitched in the major leagues for more than twenty years and I went through some really, really tough times, but even in the midst of those tough times, there’s been nothing but peace in my heart since that day at Bennigan’s when, for whatever reason, this unbelievable man, Walt Wiley, didn’t beat me over the head with the things I should be doing. He didn’t tell me what I wasn’t doing. He just allowed me to process life in the way I was processing it. Fortunately, I had enough opportunities to g
et to that point.

  And fortunately for me, I finally listened.

  Chapter Ten

  1 + 1 ≠ 2

  Ted Simmons had been in the big leagues for twenty years when we crossed paths for the first time in 1988 during my first spring training with the Atlanta Braves at West Palm Beach, Florida. I won’t hazard a guess at what he was thinking when he sized up that year’s crop of young pitchers angling for roster spots—myself included—but I can tell you whatever he saw prompted him to gather us all together in the loft above the bullpen one day and deliver a sermon on the art of pitching. He was preaching baseball like a Baptist preacher preaches the gospel, but instead of hellfire and damnation it was the gospel of chin music, down and away, and painting the black. It was awesome stuff, but unfortunately, I have to admit a lot of it went right over my head at the time.

  Yet I’ll always remember that he finished up his talk with some general advice about surviving as a major leaguer. “Listen,” he said, “you guys have got to go get yourself an outlet from baseball. Find something you like to do and go do it. If you can’t find a way to get away from the game, it’ll eat you up. It will consume you.”

  Coming from a grizzled guy who had spent two decades crouching down behind home plate, knocking down wild pitches with his jaw on occasion, it seemed like advice worth taking, so I took it. Golf became the outlet that always propelled me through the mundane stretches and the mechanical grind (not to mention the pressure) of playing 162 games a year. It was the thing I could always count on to keep my competitive fire stoked year in and year out, from mid-February to October—if we were lucky enough to still be playing when the leaves were falling.