Beyond Belief (23 page)

This was part of my new priorities — God, family, and baseball, in that order. And if I took care of the first two, the third would follow naturally.

The more time I spent with Johnny Narron, the more comfortable I felt. Johnny is a fatherly man whose personal values fit well with mine. He is a man of faith who practices what he preaches in a quiet manner. His calm demeanor and laid-back North Carolina temperament allowed us to get along like lifelong friends.

The Reds agreed to give Johnny a job as the team’s video coordinator. Mostly, he was hired to be with me. I don’t like the term
babysitter
because I don’t think it’s fair or accurate, but Johnny essentially was hired to play the role my parents had played in my early years in the minors. He was with me, would look after me, and cared about me. I know it was an unusual arrangement for a big-league player, but my situation and circumstances were unusual.

In the event I ended up making the team, Johnny, Katie, and I made a plan for road trips. At the beginning of every road trip, big-leaguers are given an envelope full of cash to handle meal expenses for the trip. It’s nearly eighty dollars a day, and we decided right away that Johnny would take my meal money and dole it out to me as I needed it. He would accompany me to the ballpark and back every day, and he would be available to me if I needed him, whenever or wherever that might be.

Johnny’s hiring had the potential to be controversial. However, I looked at Johnny as an insurance policy for the Reds. They were making an investment in my talent, and Johnny was there to help ensure that I got the most of it. None of this was guaranteed, but I set out to prove I was worth the risk.

One afternoon a few days before I was to report to spring training in Florida, one of my brother’s firefighter friends called me to ask a favor.

“Josh, would you consider talking to my son? He’s a good ballplayer and a good kid, but he’s made some bad decisions and I’m worried about him.”

The boy was flunking out of his senior year in high school. He had moved out of his parents’ home and was living with his girlfriend. He was smoking a lot of pot and listening to nobody. He had admired me as a ballplayer in years past, and his dad thought I might be able to reach him.

I agreed to try. Katie and I had done some speaking in local churches on forgiveness and redemption, and I had grown comfortable professing my faith to large groups. We spoke about our relationship to five thousand people at Hope Community Church in Apex. All we had to do was be honest and tell our stories, and let the power of our words and God’s mercy carry the day.

This, however, was different. I was a little nervous about a one-on-one with a troubled teenager. I had my story, and he had his. I know from experience that people in trouble are often the last to recognize it, and they don’t always listen.

The next day I went to Clayton High School with my Bible in my hand. I went to the office, found what class he was in, and asked them if they’d mind pulling him out of class to talk to me for a few minutes.

He had no idea any of this was planned, as the look on his face showed. I introduced myself — he knew who I was, but still — and then walked with him to the school’s baseball field.

“You know your parents are worried about you, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I’ve made some mistakes. I know how hard it can be, but there’s a better way.”

He listened but said little. I opened the Bible to a passage I had chosen before leaving home: Romans 7:14–17. I read to him.

For we know that the law is spiritual, but I am unspiritual — sold into slavery to sin. For I do not understand what I am doing. For I do not do what I want — instead, I do what I hate. But if I do what I don’t want, I agree that the law is good. But now it is no longer me doing it, but sin that lives in me.

I discussed the meaning of the passage, and how Paul battled with sin. It’s the battle that is waged within all of us, the battle between sin and salvation.

“It’s never too late,” I told him. “Just look at me.”

Before I left for spring training with the Reds, I had to take care of an important piece of unfinished business. Julia and I made the decision to formally be welcomed into our faith and be baptized together by our pastor, Jimmy Carroll of Journey Church in Raleigh. With a new, unexpectedly wonderful opportunity in front of me, it was the perfect time to give thanks and praise to God.

Our church wasn’t completed yet, so there was no baptismal pool. This called for some ingenuity and resourcefulness. Pastor Jimmy arranged for us to be baptized at the Gypsy Divers Aquatic Shop in Raleigh, where we would use one of their diving pools for the ceremony.

The symbolism of baptism as it related to my story made it even more important, and poignant. Being immersed in a pool of God’s healing water — even in a dive shop — is just an outward sign of an inward transformation. My inward transformation, while never complete, began the day I was saved in my aunt’s living room. It strengthened the day I surrendered to God in the tiny bedroom in my grandmother’s house and told Him to do with me what He would. I admitted my inadequacies and acknowledged my inability to overcome my problems on my own.

And now, getting ready to head to a major-league spring training after nearly four years out of the game, I was a living example of God’s generosity and power. I was a miracle, and it seemed the absolute perfect time for me to exercise an outward manifestation of my inner transformation. I proclaimed to the Lord, publicly, that I am a follower of Christ. I needed to confirm and celebrate my faith as spring approached and I prepared for the next step of my journey.

I told Katie I didn’t expect to feel any different when I emerged from the water. I already felt different inside; I already felt reborn and released from the bonds of my imprisonment. A dip in the pool was just confirmation.

So, with Katie’s mother and father watching along with about forty other people from our congregation, I walked fully clothed into the water. When I emerged, the smile on my face could have lit up the night. I looked up to see Katie and her parents with tears streaming down their faces. I really did feel different. My heart felt light. This was a moment of pure happiness.

I stayed in the water and Julia joined me. Katie says the smile that stayed on my face was the biggest she had ever seen. When I walked out of the water with Julia, I felt a lightness and happiness that surprised me.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ON FEBRUARY 15, 2007, I arrived at the Reds’ complex in Sarasota and walked into a spring training clubhouse for the first time in four years. The butterflies bounced in my stomach like a thousand jackrabbits. So much of this was unexpected, and now that it was here, and real, I couldn’t help but be nervous.

It didn’t feel real, though, especially when I looked across the room and saw Ken Griffey Jr.’s, locker. I didn’t have any idea how I’d fit in, whether I belonged here either mentally or physically. I had played eight Class A games in the past four years, and I had never played a single inning at a level above Class AA.

What was I doing here? Following the script, I guess.

I didn’t know how I was going to be received by the players or the fans or the media. My failures and mistakes were well publicized, so I knew I would come under more scrutiny than anybody else in camp. I knew my story would be a favorite of the national writers and broadcasters who made their trips through the spring training camps, as well as the Cincinnati media.

The reception I would get and the way in which I would be projected through the media were things I could not control. I could be honest and grateful and give glory to God, but once the words left my mouth they were open for interpretation and dissection.

On the field, I had fewer worries. Sixteen months of sobriety and positive thinking had convinced me I hadn’t lost my ability to play the game. Somehow, after abusing my body and my brain and my soul for so long, I found I could still play. Once I got my strength and my weight back, I was amazed that I could still throw and run and hit the ball as far as I always could. If this wasn’t a miracle, nothing is.

The first batting practice with the Reds dispelled most of my fears. I knew I would be watched closely, by teammates and coaches, and after a few swings I realized I was right with these guys. I could swing it with Jeff Conine and Adam Dunn and the other veteran big- leaguers.

I felt everyone’s eyes on me, and that was nothing new. After I sprayed a few balls all over the field, I took a couple out and started to hear the same whispers and see the same head nods I’d grown accustomed to before I left the game. I played it cool, but inside I was smiling. I got a couple of back slaps from my teammates, and I knew I had a chance to make this work.

Before the spring training games began, Jerry Narron called me into his office to tell me I would be playing just about every day during the spring.

“For you to get your timing, and for us to see if you can play up here, you need to play,” he said. “Right now I’m looking at moving you around from center to right to designated hitter when we can. I want you to get as many at bats as you can.”

This sounded perfect to me. They needed to see it, and so did I. By this time, two weeks into official workouts, I was feeling confident I could stick around. There were some problems — I felt out of place and unsure on the basepaths, like I was on the surface of the moon or something — but I showed I could still play.

I started the Grapefruit League on a tear, hitting a 450-foot homer in my first at bat, and stayed that way. I think my frame of mind — I was incredibly happy and eager to wake up and get to the park every morning — had a lot to do with it. This was the chance I never thought I would get, and making the most of it felt better than any high I could imagine. After praying for the Lord to take me away from the horrible mess of my life, I was now thanking Him and praising Him for every second of every day.

I was routinely asked, “When did you know you were going to be able to play in the big leagues?” About halfway through spring training, when I was hitting nearly .500, I faced Mariano Rivera of the Yankees. Rivera is one of the best relievers in the history of baseball, and you could make a serious argument that he is the very best.

I had never faced Rivera, but I asked some guys in the dugout and they said he throws one pitch — a cut fastball that moves so much it’s nearly impossible to hit. It’s very rare for a pitcher, even a closer, to rely on one pitch, but Rivera is considered a freak of nature when it comes to this one pitch.

Quickly, I fell behind in the count 1-2. I had seen nothing but the cutter, and I had a couple good rips at it. So, on 1-2, I was looking for another one. The ball left Rivera’s hand, and I geared up to get the bat through in time. But when I started to swing, the ball was nowhere near me — a changeup. It’s one of the worst feelings in baseball: looking for a fastball and getting fooled by a changeup. I lunged for the ball and missed it badly, striking out and looking silly in the process.

That was a shock. Nobody even knew Mariano Rivera threw a changeup, and here he was, throwing it to a rookie in spring training. Jeff Conine came to the plate and was surprised to see Rivera and catcher Jose Posada looking at each other and laughing. Conine’s been around forever and knows everybody, so he asked Posada, “What’s so funny?”

“Mo just threw one of the three changeups he’ll throw all season.”

I took it as a compliment. I was deemed worthy to be the unfortunate recipient of one of Mariano Rivera’s select few changeups. I guess that’s when I realized I’d made it.

Before a spring training game in late March, less than two weeks from Opening Day, I was standing near the dugout signing autographs. I never looked at this as a chore, even back in high school, because if someone thinks enough of you to spend the money to watch you play and ask you for an autograph, it’s the least we can do to sign a piece of paper or a baseball cap.

I was going from baseball card to cap to program, signing as fast as I could, when I heard a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. With everybody calling out your name, it’s usually best to keep your head down and sign, but something about this man’s voice made me look up.

What I saw startled me. It was Kevin from the tattoo shop, the man who had introduced me to drugs. He was with his son, by now about eight, and they were handing me something to sign.

I had thought about what might happen if I ever saw these guys again. For years I felt resentment and bitterness toward them, even though I knew I made my own decisions and was responsible for the consequences.

“Hi, Josh,” Kevin said. “Good to see you’re doing well.”

I held eye contact, unsmiling, for a little longer than usual. I had a brief flashback to all the years of hell that started with one bad decision.

I nodded to the boy, whom I assumed was his son even though he’d never mentioned children. Turning back to the cards and baseballs held out before me, I said, “Thanks, man. Hope you’re doing well.”

I had to remind myself of my standard answer when someone mentioned the guys who got me started in all this: They weren’t bad people, they just did bad things.

Forgiveness was at the root of my story. I was forgiven, therefore I needed to forgive. I knew there would be more encounters with fans who, for whatever reason, felt the need to belittle me because of my past, but looking up to see Kevin was a moment that might not be topped.

Before spring training began, I had no idea how I would be received by fans. I knew other players who had drug problems, like Darryl Strawberry, became targets of fan abuse. I didn’t know what to expect, and I definitely didn’t expect what I got.

From the beginning, I was reminded every day that my story is bigger than me. Every time I go to the ballpark, I talk to people who are either battling addictions themselves or trying to help someone else who is. They want to confide in me, to share, to see if something I experienced can help them succeed as well.

Who talks to me? Just about everybody.