Notes from the Ballyard: “I Love You”

At Thursday night youth, last week I was ecstatic. There was more progress this week. The whole field was littered with people. We spawned into a couple groups, Amy with kickball and me with football, but the real population growth was on the fringes as an older crowd conjugated along the perimeter. Each little pod reproduced itself: For example, one of the kids was joined by his older sister, who in turn had several friends. Hence the crowd.

One of the young men from the neighborhood, my new friend, was there again. We talked about his football team. He wants me to coach with him. That would be nice.

I spent a half hour or so with one particular sixth grader. We threw the ball around. He has natural quarterback skills. But more than that, he’s together as a person. Good attitude, confidence. His house is well populated with siblings and adults, and some of the kids are home schooled (which in a hood like this is usually evidence that things are going better than average).

After both our arms were worn out we joined the group on the baseball diamond, where kickball was going on beneath the screams of envy and cussing. Everyone wanted to be the next in line to kick. I brewed for a while until the first half inning change, and then I shared the law. If anyone says f*^K, sh&T, dam#, (etc., etc., etc.), you are out of this game. And stay off the field: The ondeck circle and dug out are on the concrete. Stay off the field unless you are up to the plate. And I don’t care who’s next, just quit fighting about it. Or I’ll send you to the back of the line.

I’m not a disciplinarian and I was not comfortable, particularly cussing loud in public with a few parents in view. But of course cuss words were filling the air anyway and I think the shock value (hearing a hitherto clean adult with potty mouth) made my point. I repeated the instructions in the next half inning, with the team that really needed them.

Then it was time for the organized league to take the infield, and we returned to the grass for a game of football. I watched as the antics continued, mainly the younger boys picking on each other and talking like angry, drunken sailors. I probably would have erupted into some completely inappropriate banter had not my gifted and professional friend said something graceful and effective. She had the kids all in a line, and then assigned them to fair teams. I did make the comment that one cuss word and you were out of the game.

There were quite a few controversies in the hour that followed, as to who said what, and there were a couple penalties. The main offender quite the game near the end. Which commenced one of the more lively moments. As he stormed away, I addressed him by name and said, “Okay, good-bye, I love you.”

There was some laughter, and I was even called a homosexual, in not so endearing terms (penalty!). But the show of affection punctuated an earlier point, when I asked everyone, “Where’s the love?” and the energy changed completely. Rather than focusing on the law, on what not to do or say, the emphasis was suddenly on the affirmative. This worked: There were more than a few compliments and nice gestures afterward. As the evening closed, Amy overheard one of the kids saying, “Where’s the love?”

At the peak of the madness, I was feeling extended. What in the heck are we doing here? I need some help. We have taken the organic, non-institutional approach. But is this too much for a small group of subversives? I thought of two of my mentors from youth pastor days, both of whom are working in large metropolitan youth ministries, and sensed my spirit crying to theirs’ for advice.

Later I removed myself to the fringe and surveyed the 360-degree scene. The old Methodist church was to my back. Parked in front of it was a car blasting the latest in Compton hip-hop, and a small party near the car – featuring several young men, two women and a baby, all adorned in the latest in urban fashion. Behind them, the playground jungle-gym spilled over with teens and children. Our football game went on in the grass, in the foreground of the rec-league softball game (played by the only Caucasians in sight, beyond myself and Amy). Around the rec building, on the picnic tables and small playground, there were a couple dozen young people (mostly associated with our activities) .

It was the kind of evening that makes San Diego famous: Neither warm nor cool, sky bleeding with every majestic mix of red, yellow and blue. Just like you picture heaven. I’m not sure where all this goes but I’m glad, despite persistent evidence to the contrary, that the atmosphere is wrapped in God’s loving hands. My prayer is that we can make that abundantly clear around here.