Home to Harmony by Philip Gulley Page B

hit? My father was there in 1961 when Roger Maris set his record, and he never forgot it. Whenever we’d watch a ball game, he’d say, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I saw Roger Maris hit number sixty-one?’ Then he’d talk about that ballsailing over the fence. He never forgot it. He talked about it on his deathbed, about seeing that.”
    Dale said, “We’d be a witness to history. We’d never forget it. Then we could drive through the night and be at Brother Norman’s in the morning.”
    So that’s what we did. We bought the tickets and found our seats.
    It was a hot evening. The late sun beat down, right on us. A vendor walked down our aisle.
    â€œCold beer,” he yelled. “Get your cold beer.”
    It was unmercifully hot.
    I looked at Dale and Harvey. “I drank a beer once. I was in college. It didn’t taste bad, either.”
    Dale said, “I haven’t had a beer since I became a Christian.”
    Harvey said, “You know, the apostle Paul once advised Timothy to refresh himself with an adult beverage.”
    Dale declared, “I know that verse. The Epistle of 1 Timothy. Chapter 5. Verse 23.”
    I could feel the sweat trickle down my back and into my underwear.
    It was cruelly hot, and what was one beer? That was no big sin, was it? Harvey yelled at the vendor and held up three fingers and passed our money down the row. Back came three beers. We sat in our seats and watched the game and sipped our beers. It was such a thrill, getting away with something.
    Then Mark McGwire came to bat and the crowd grew still. It was like church. Like the silence after the first hymn when we’re waiting for the Lord to inspire us. It was that kind of quiet. The pitcher glanced at firstbase, then at third base, then reared back and hurled the ball toward home plate. Mark McGwire brought the bat around in slow motion. We heard a crack! and that little white ball sailed over the fence and into the crowd.
    Everyone in the country was watching their television sets—even the people in Harmony. So when the camera swept the roaring crowd and paused on us, standing and holding our beers, people from Harmony said, “I thought they were on a mission trip. What are they doing there? I thought they were in Oklahoma with Brother Norman and the Choctaw youth. And what is that they’re drinking? That doesn’t look like soda to me.”
    Before long it was all over town. Everyone knew, including our wives. Some of the men in the church wondered why they hadn’t been invited on the mission trip, and weren’t too happy about being left out.
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    A fter the game, we climbed on the bus and drove through the night, talking of Mark McGwire’s home run and how we’d never forget it.
    â€œI can’t wait till we get home,” Dale said. “Won’t it be fun telling people we were there?”
    Harvey said, “Dale, don’t you dare say a word about being there. If those Friendly Women find out we were at the game, they’ll kill us.”
    That smothered our elation. We’d seen history made and couldn’t brag. What a bitter disappointment.
    Early the next morning we pulled up in the churchparking lot and sounded the horn. Brother Norman was waiting with the Choctaw youth.
    â€œWe were expecting you last night,” Brother Norman said.
    â€œWe stopped to do some birdwatching,” Harvey told him. “Saw some lovely cardinals.”
    Brother Norman smiled. “Isn’t it nice to enjoy God’s creation?”
    â€œIt’s wonderful,” Harvey agreed. “Simply wonderful.”
    Brother Norman and the Choctaw youth walked around the bus, admiring it. Brother Norman read the Scripture verse Dale had painted: I am the Good Shepherd; I know my own and my own know me.
    â€œA fine Scripture,” he said.
    â€œIt wasn’t my first choice,” Dale allowed.
    Brother Norman showed us