I just finished reading a book called The Last Nine Innings by Charles Euchner. Toward the end of the book, Euchner hits a little close too close to home for me. He talks about the pitching mechanics of Randy Johnson—one of the most dominating pitchers to ever play the game. Johnson usually contains a scowl on his face as he stares down opposing hitters. Throw in the fact that he's 6' 10" and 225 pounds and you have the makings of a monster. The temptation is to believe that he's always been that way, but he hasn't.
Here's a brief blurb from Euchner's book about Johnson:
"As he was growing up in California, Johnson endured endless taunts about his height and strange looks. Johnson burned, and often lost himself in confusion and anger, when opponents openly gawked and laughed and called him Big Bird. For years, the ridicule worked against Johnson. But once he gained physical control of his body, he turned the anger to his advantage."
Euchner then goes on to quote Johnson:
"Being six-seven or six-eight [feet tall] when I was growing up, I felt different," he recalls. "Everybody kind of looked at me. I felt really skinny and out of place, always different. I was shy and very quiet...It was something that was hard growing up. I'll be walking down a mall and people stare like I'm some kind of freak."
Then Euchner recounts what Johnson's old college coach Rod Dedeaux at USC said:
"Dedeaux says Johnson's later decision to wear long, stringy hair and a nasty glare gave him a way to overcome the taunts by confirming them: You think I'm strange looking? A freak? Look at this."
Euchner says that Johnson's hurt and anger never went away. Instead, Euchner says that Johnson "summons" it "when he needs to refocus his attention and gather his energy" during a game.
I never endured endless taunts about my weight like Johnson did about his height, but I endured enough of them to understand the confusion and anger that Johnson felt. I'm sure that most people thought that their intentions were good, or at the very least, politefully funny. I never saw it that way.
They called me all sorts things: Big Guy, Big Beefy Guy, Slow-mo ("because it looks like you are in slow motion when you run"), and a few others. And like Johnson, I turned inward; focusing my anger on things I could control—like writing songs and poems.
Pain always manifests itself somehow. It's impossible to squelch, although we try. Some try to escape it with alcohol or drugs. Some try to escape via less dangerous means. Some chose even more inconspicuous means like writing just so they can hide it. The last thing they want to do is to draw even more attention to themselves. That was me.
I became a Christian in the early 90's and slowly, the opinions that other people had about me seemed to begin to matter less. Not so much because my mindset was automatically changed, but rather because I became more concerned with living the life that I felt God called me to live. And in the course of my pursuit, I met some wonderful people who embraced me for who I was.
The funny thing is, people who don't consider themselves to be Christians often believe that Christians are judgmental. While that is partially true—in some Christian circles, you'll find people who are ready and willing to pounce at a moments notice; I haven't found that to be the case in most of my experiences. Something about seeing ourselves as being equally in need of a Savior levels the playing field and makes people more accepting of one another.
