Dear Friends,

I don’t know about you, but I have trouble believing that these events actually took place the way the author claimed they did...if they took place at all. It’s a very moving story, no question about that. We can certainly appreciate the message the author is trying to convey, about love and human kindness and how we should treat people less fortunate than ourselves. I’d like to believe it’s true story, not some hokey, tear-jerking fable somebody concocted to illustrate a point. However, I’m an author myself, and I can smell embellishment and plot manipulation a mile away. Imagine: a group of boys forfeiting a ball game (or at least putting it on hold) so that a disabled kid, whom they don’t even know, could whack the ball, round the bases, think that he won the game and feel good about himself! I’m sorry, but that’s a bit far fetched for my blood. And what if Shay had struck out after three tries? Would the kids have granted him three more? Or changed the rules of the game to "18 strikes, you’re out?" Or would they have let him keep swinging at the ball all afternoon until he finally hit it, just to keep him from feeling discouraged?

I’m not insisting that this story couldn’t possibly be true; I have no proof that it is or it isn’t. But my instincts tell me that somebody is pushing my buttons. Yours as well. It reminds me of the sentimental, perfect-world drama you might see on the Family Channel, or an after-school special. (It could be that the author left out the part about Shay’s dad bribing those boys in the park to get them to go along with the ruse, because, you see, that information would have spoiled the precious effect he wanted to create in the mind of the reader.)

True or not, the story deserves a reply.

So okay, I thought about the "two choices" the author presented. Mind you, I’ve never fathered a child, so I’m hardly an expert on how to raise a son, particularly a disabled one. Nevertheless, IF I had to decide what decision I would have made IF I had been Shay’s dad...well, to be painfully honest, I must tell you that I’d have steered him away from those kids playing ball in the park. Obviously, I wouldn’t want to discourage the boy by telling him he wasn’t good enough to participate (even if I thought he wasn’t). Instead, I would try to find him a less demanding social outlet—one where he could make friends and have fun without suffering the rejection and ridicule that I experienced when I was his age. The LAST thing I’d do would be to ask a group of youngsters to accept my son into a competitive activity for which I myself was never suited for.

Now, I was not mentally or physically challenged like the boy in the story. My only "handicap" when I was growing up (if you can call it that) was that I was fat. Kids found that wildly comical, especially when I engaged in physical activities. Not only was I fat, I was clumsy, naive and embarrassingly un-savvy when it came to team sports. I couldn’t hit a ball, couldn’t catch a ball, couldn’t pitch to save my life, couldn’t run fast. Half the time, I didn’t know what the heck I was supposed to do. How pathetic! The retarded boy in the story probably knew more about the game than I did.

Baseball was an integral part of every kid’s life back then—everyone’s, except mine. My own dad simply had no interest in sports of any kind, and I guess he passed that indifference on to me. He never exposed me to the game nor encouraged me to play, never took me to a ballpark, never watched a game on TV. What’s more, I grew up without siblings, so the natural impulse to compete...well, it just wasn’t there. You can understand why I had no affection for the "Great American Pastime," nor any incentive to excel at it. Or why I had virtually nothing in common with most boys my age. The only time I participated in any sport (baseball, basketball, soccer) was in gym class, in elementary and junior high school. And I did so only because I was required to.

For most boys my age, winning the game was all important, and I was a proven liability. I was the last person anyone wanted on his team. When I finally ended up on one, it was usually by default, after everyone else in the class had been picked. Unlike the kids in the Shay story, the guys on my team made sure I knew how unwelcome and unappreciated I was. They tolerated me for the same reason I tolerated being there: they were forced to. Not only did my team captain not encourage me to succeed, he made every effort to keep me out of the action, lest I should fumble the ball or throw it to the wrong person, which I was known to do. And when I did screw up, my fellow players weren’t shy about letting me know how stupid I was. They made me feel retarded. Talk about not fitting in! I don’t have to tell you that boys can be very cruel. Is it any wonder that I felt so uncomfortable around kids my age? I was uncomfortable just being a kid, and I couldn’t wait till I was older.

My dad had grown up in a rough and ready neighborhood of East Harlem, where kids played and made friends and toughed it out in the street. Unlike my mom, who tended to shelter me, my dad believed that I stood to learn more about life by taking my lumps (and landing a few when the situation called for it), than in letting myself be coddled. I know now that he was right. To his mind, rejection and disappointment were an integral part of the human experience—the "Natural Order of Things," if you will. The sooner I learned to accept the world for what it was, and to respect myself for who I was, the better off I’d be.

I can’t say what choices my dad would have made if I had I been disabled like Shay. What I do know is that, while he may not have encouraged me to be a champ, he never saw me as a less-than-capable person in terms of fitting in with people, or making a decent contribution to the world. Had the two of us encountered a group of kids playing ball in the park, he probably would have encourage me to join in. Not because he gave a flying rap about the game, or how fast I ran, or whether I knew third base from a hole in my shoe. What mattered, as far as he was concerned, was that I stepped out of my shell and made friends anyway I could.

I may have been a washout in school when it came to sports and physical activities. Fortunately, I did excel in other endeavors, like drama and in writing, and I won awards in both. People who saw me perform on stage, or read the pieces I wrote for the school literary magazine, were amazed to discover that I wasn’t such a loser after all. And while my "career" as a postal clerk is hardly glamorous, I’m a force to reckon with on the workroom floor. My co-workers and supervisors all appreciate me for the work I do. Winning their respect, for me, is a significant achievement, even if Entertainment Tonight doesn’t recognize it. I like who I am, and I’m good at what I do. I’m not even FAT anymore. I’m "abdominally enhanced," and I don’t care who knows it!

I’m not sure, though, that this same textbook psychology should be applied to a disabled child, leastways, not without some thoughtful modifications. We can talk all we want to about how people ought to treat other people. All of us may wish this world were a kinder, gentler place in which to raise a child. But if I were Shays’s dad, and I were faced with the sort of choice Shay’s dad faced, I couldn’t let idealism and wishful thinking govern my decision. Because experience tells me that the kids in the park are not likely to treat my son any more kindly than the kids in my gym class treated me, especially if he was handicapped. Maybe that sounds cynical and unfair. Maybe I’m overgeneralizing. Still, as a father—that is, if I were a father—I would rather err on the side of cynicism than to gamble with my son’s feelings.

Again, I have to believe that are other opportunities (other than baseball) for a boy like Shay to connect with youngsters his age, opportunities for him to fit in and feel good about himself. Seems to me that a child who has found balance and affirmation in a variety of social offerings would be less inclined to attach too much importance to any one activity—or proving ground, as he case may be. If I there’s one concept I would instill in a child (assuming he was capable of grasping concepts), it’s that every person, young and old alike, has his own unique gifts, different strengths, different weaknesses. I would want him to understand that these differences are what make us individuals. They’re what make us special. They’re what make him special. And there’s no shame in being special.

Part of finding one’s niche in the world, I think, is realizing that not everyone is cut out to play baseball. Not everyone is qualified lead a nation either, or write a million dollar hit song. What of it? I never understood why a person’s proficiency in any one endeavor (sports, for example) had to be the sole basis on which he was judged or accepted. Or why he should be made to feel that he’s less of a person because he can’t dance (for example), or surf, or press 200 pounds, or because he makes less than $40G a year, or lives in a trailer, or drives an Escort instead of a Lexus. That obsessive, one-note mind set irked me when I was growing up. It irks me today.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that we have already realized the "Natural Order of Things," such as it is, and that it’s anything but perfect. Why? Because man, by his very nature, is imperfect. All of us, regardless of our capabilities, fall short of perfection. And not until we are transformed by Someone beyond this Natural Order, someone greater than ourselves, will we ever transform this imperfect world into the sort of ideal existence the author says it ought to be. To suggest that we can accomplish this in our own strength is not only hokey, it’s delusional. The author of "Shay’s Story" challenges us to consider the opportunities we have everyday to "make a difference" in the lives of others, to "pass along a little spark of love and humanity." But it begs a fundamental question: Where do we find, within our natural, well-intentioned selves, the crucial "spark" to make this "love" a living, universal reality?

Let me put this to you another way. If mankind had this God-like power within himself to cure the world’s ills and transform the world into a paradise of harmony and good will, don’t you think he’d have used it by now????
What I’m about to say probably goes beyond the message the author intended to convey in his e-mail. But I too am an author, and this is my e-mail. And this is my opportunity to make a difference. So, if you’re still with me, this is the "spark" I’d like to pass along:

There’s only one Person Who has ever brought "true love" into the world. Only one Person Who has ever made a perfect "difference" in this imperfect world. And that Person is Jesus Christ. Unlike the denizens of this "Natural Order," Jesus does not accept us on the basis of our accomplishments, or how well we’ve succeeded. More importantly, thanks to what He accomplished on Calvary, God the Father doesn’t hold our failures against us. Why? Because Jesus has already taken these failings, our sins, upon Himself, and paid for them with His blood. Arrogance, envy, cruelty, anger, hatred, self-loathing: Jesus took them all with Him to the cross. When He died, our sins died with Him, once and forever. Then he did something else no one else has ever done before or since: He rose again and ascended back to the Father. The work of redemption was finished. It is finished.

There are no conditions, no skills no prior qualifications necessary for winning His approval, no additional "accomplishments" for us to perform before we can gain admittance into His Kingdom. The Son of God requires nothing of us—EXCEPT that we come to Him in faith and invite Him into our hearts. That means placing our complete trust, not in who we are, or what we’ve done, or how good we think we are (or could be), but in the Person and redemptive power of Jesus Christ. Only when we die to SELF can we affect the "Natural Order" by showing forth the super-natural benevolence the Shay author was trying to promote.

Whether you accept the tale of "Shay, Shay all the way!" as a factual account, a moral parable, or an acute case of wishful thinking, is up to you. If it prompted you to think about making a positive difference in the world, then I say it served a good purpose. Then again, if my e-mail response makes a difference in your world by focusing on a far greater message, then it will have served a far greater purpose. At least, that’s my hope.

Thank you for your time. You’ve been a lovely audience.

Sincerely, and with kindest regards,
Ted
February 21, 2007

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