The Face of an Angel Bob's Backstop for December 22, 2004

A true Christmas story, circa 1967:

 It was another Christmas pageant. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be as humiliating as last year’s. You remember. You didn’t quite make the cut for a lead singer as one of the Three Wise Men singing “We Three Kings”. But then Miss Paxton decided that the boys that she chose couldn’t sing loudly enough to be heard at the back of the auditorium, so she put the three runners-up (yours truly included) behind a curtain at the side of the stage so they could sing along. How effective was it? It was hard to tell as I sang into a thick curtain hanging about a foot in front of my face. But of course the folks told me they could hear me loud and clear. I doubted it somehow, but that was the way it was. At least I didn’t have to wear a sheet or one of those itchy fake beards.

 So this year it’s a “Down Home Christmas”, as the new teacher Miss Wall plans to have what seems to be a production only slightly less complex than “My Fair Lady.” I overheard a couple of the teachers talking about it. They seemed to think that Miss Wall is overreaching a bit to expect a bunch of fourth-graders to do some of these dances (I have to look up the word “comeuppance”.) I guess that makes sense, since most of us are sadly lacking in dance experience, or, at least as far as I’m concerned, desire. It’s all I can do to manage the minuet or those square dances we have to do on rainy days instead of going outside for recess.

 There is, though, the idea of getting to dance with someone you really like. Kay, or Nancy, or Susan, or Angela, or Martha, or Joyce, or Mitzi, or Polly, or even Debra or Kathy, whose appeal is limited to knowing that they like you. As sweaty as my palms are at the thought, my heart seems to be beating a bit faster, too, in a not totally unpleasant way.

 Finally, the bell rings. There’s a Gray-Y basketball game today, so there’s no time to go up to the auditorium to look at the list to see who my partner is. It will have to wait.

 At halftime, I’m standing in line with the other boys at the water fountain. I’ve had a great first half, and I’m grinning in spite of myself. I should ave known better. My reverie was about to end. My friend and sports rival Steve slipped in behind me. “Hey, I was talking to Kathy. She had written down a bunch of partners from the list for the pageant.”

 KATHY, I thought. Well, you could do worse. She really likes you. She has that great curly hair. But she never shuts up. I know I was really hoping for Kay or Angie or Susan, but…

 “You got Inez, buddy.” He slapped me on the back, in what was either commiseration or enjoyment. “I got Susan.”

 Inez. My gosh, how could I have such rotten luck? What did I do to deserve this?

 I was off my game the entire second half. The coach yelled at me a couple of times, and finally took me out of the game. Cheeks burning, I walked to the end of the bench and looked up to see Kathy and her friends looking at me, laughing at me. I wanted to sink through the floor.

 The end of the game was a blur, viewed through a thin veil of tears. Afterwards, I dressed quickly, not even stopping for the shower, but Coach Bennett stopped me before I could reach the door.

 “Bobby, come in here, and shut the door,” he bellowed.

 I clicked the door closed behind me, head lowered, fearful of bursting into tears if I looked him in the eye. I didn’t know of what I was more ashamed, the way I had played in the second half, the humiliation of getting Inez as my partner for the play, or that I had disappointed the coach. My stomach was sinking fast, seemingly in a race with my feet for the center of the earth.

 “Sit down. I want to talk to you. What happened out there?”

 “Nothing, coach. I was just upset about something, that’s all. I’m really sorry.”

 “It’s okay, Bobby. We still won, right? Is this about those girls giggling at the game?”

 “What girls?”

 “Bobby, they were sitting right behind the bench. I heard them talking about the pageant. And the second half was when you looked like you wanted to be anywhere except here. I assume the two might have something to do with each other?”

 I couldn’t help it. The dam broke, the tears flowed, the deep sobs following close behind. My face buried in my hands, I felt the coach’s reassuring touch on my shoulder.

 “It’s okay, Bobby. Really. Come on, calm down. Let’s talk about it.”

 I gathered myself as best I could, doing my best 12-year-old impression of a man, all the while knowing I was obviously a major wussie.

 “Bobby, do you think you’re entitled to be with one of the other girls in class because you won the history medal, or because you’re a good athlete?”

 I shook my head from side to side, still afraid to speak.

 “Okay. So this isn’t about you, then. It’s about her. Inez. Is that it?”

 I didn’t say anything, or move a muscle.

 “Well, it has to be one or the other, doesn’t it? Tell me the truth. You can tell me. You’re among guys here.”

 It burst out of me with the suddenness of a summer downpour. “Coach, it’s not her, really it isn’t. It’s the way everyone will be laughing at me. Everyone thinks she’s retarded or something! I can’t stand the thought of everyone making fun of me!”

 “What about Inez, Bobby? Don’t you think she has to suffer through that every day? Every day?” Coach Bennett looked at me very intently. I’d never seen that look on his face, not even when we were one point down against Stonewall Jackson with 15 seconds to go. “I know her Mom and Dad. They are good people. They moved here this year to give Inez a new start. She was in a bicycle accident a couple of years ago, and she’s had all sorts of problems in school and with friends since then. People either pity her, ignore her like she doesn’t exist, or make fun of her; some to her face, some behind her back. She’s getting better, slowly. That’s why they came here, to a place where she wouldn’t be ‘the girl that used to be in the retard class’.

 But it hasn’t worked as well as they hoped. She’s nearly able to keep up in the classroom, but she is so shy. She’s hearing the same whispers she heard in Martinsville. She’s a nice girl, Bobby. Treat her like one.”

 “But, Coach…”

 “I don’t know if Miss Wall picked you for her on purpose. My guess is that she did. You can do this, Bobby. Ignore them. You’re popular enough to get by. You’ll hear some jokes, sure. If you ignore them, they will go away. I know you don’t want to do this, Bobby, but ask yourself…if not me, then who?”

 “Why not Danny Talley or someone like that that no one else wants?” I blurted out as my lip started to quiver again.

 “Because they are Danny Talley. Do you think Danny would dance with her without making jokes about her behind her back, or even maybe to her face? Do you think he’d smile at her?”

 I understood what Coach was saying. I didn’t like it, but I understood it. I trudged home, hoping for the two weeks between now and Christmas break to magically disappear.

 But they didn’t. Soon I was taking Inez by the hand, red-faced despite my best efforts to the contrary. Luckily, lots of the other boys were red-faced as well, as were several of the girls. We struggled at first, hardly speaking, our awkward limbs mimicking our inarticulate speech.

 I would hear remarks, usually when homeward bound. Kathy, Debby and Nancy would sing the “Bobby and Inez Sitting in a Tree” song nearly every day, to the restrained glee of my closer friends. I wanted nothing to do with being the brunt of their jokes. A few rounds with one of the school bullies was more appealing.

 But, somehow, I survived.

Something interesting happened during the last few rehearsals. Inez and I actually began to move well together. As many of the other couples continued to struggle with the intricate steps, we found ourselves less earthbound at each turn on the floor. The day before the pageant, Miss Wall asked me if Inez and I would switch places with Steve and Angie, who had been the couple she had originally placed in the center front of the dance. “I need my strongest couple up there,” she smiled.

 I nodded, and turned to tell my partner…my friend.

In the 1948 film The Bishop’s Wife, Cary Grant plays an angel assigned to help an Episcopal bishop played by David Niven. Grant tells Niven that there are many angels in the world, helping people without their ever knowing it. “The next time you walk down the street, Henry, and glance at someone walking past, you may be looking into the face of an angel.”

 Whether or not we believe in the ethereal type of angels or not, we’ve all seen countless examples of angelic behavior, of selflessness, of people acting like human beings are supposed to act…and how those acts and attitudes can change the lives of others.

 Why we get caught up in selfishness, in our own superiority, in greed, in objectifying others, is beyond my humble ability to know. Philosophers, psychiatrists, and other observers of the human condition have been trying to understand this for centuries.

 This really is a wonderful life. Despite our penchant for war, for violence, for petty squabbles, avarice, and tribalism…when we manage to wipe those foibles from our slate of possibilities and replace it with the clear vision of a newborn, someone who knows only what they see and feel rather than what they think they know and what seems to be in their best interest…then we make something wonderful happen.

 Miracles? Perhaps not in the most familiar sense. But it’s the small miracles that can carry the greatest impact. Forgiveness. Charity. Good Will. Genuine Caring. Acknowledgment of Another’s Humanity.

 What wonders these seemingly small gifts can make!

 I wish wonders for you this holiday season. Wonders aren’t secular, and they aren’t religious. They are in your heart, and in your mind, ready to be unleashed…and also to be received.

 There was nothing remarkable in my behavior all those years ago. I was shamed into doing the right thing. It certainly wasn’t my idea. I was no hero.

 Yet there was a heroic quality in what I managed to do. Offering a shred of dignity to someone who has none isn’t an act of sainthood, or even that of an angel. It’s just what being human is really all about.

 The folks who read this site love baseball. It’s something we all share, a commonality. We root for different teams, in different places, with differing philosophies. Arguing those philosophies is part of what makes the game fun, like family squabbles that are filled with an underlying love, a good-natured recognition of the foibles of our partners even as we realize that without those foibles, they wouldn’t be who they are, but someone different, more boring, less able to offer the ‘sunny side’ of the things that drive us crazy about them.

 Please take a moment in this holiday season to thank those who have performed those little miracles for you in your life…friends, family, childhood friends long forgotten, coaches, teachers, pastors, co-workers, bosses, perhaps people that touched your life only briefly, but left a candle burning in your darkness. The watermarks of their touch still show though the fabric of your life anytime you hold it to the light.

 And pass it on. Take a chance. Step out on a limb. Do something crazy, illogical. Meet someone new. Say something you’ve been holding back.

 After all, a life lived in fear, is a life half-lived.

 Make a new miracle today, tomorrow, and the day after that. And don’t worry, baseball will be here to mark the time, the place, to thrill you, drive you insane, comfort you. There will be ghosts of the past, and hopes for tomorrow. We will always have the game…and each other.

 Happy Holidays!