My favorite of those metaphors is that baseball is more The Odyssey than The Iliad. 

In other sports, you set out deep into the heart of heavily defended enemy territory to conquer. 

In baseball, you also set out from home . . . but the goal is always to return home.

Prayer and priorities

It’s Monday morning in early August, and I want nothing more than to return home. I’ve been out of state on a grueling work trip. All that separates me from my family is a 25-minute connecting flight from Chicago to Madison. 

Plus, I have plans on Friday to take my five-year-old, Benny, to a Milwaukee Brewers game. (Benny is not named after Benny “the Jet” Rodriguez from the classic film, The Sandlot, but Laura and I enjoy the coincidence nonetheless.) 

At a game earlier that summer, Benny announced that he wanted a ball. 

“I think I can make that happen,” I told him. A perk of Benny’s membership in the Brewers Kids Club is early access to watch batting practice. Even if dad can’t manage to snag a home run ball off the bat, there’s a pretty good chance a player will toss you one if you stand around looking cute long enough. 

But just as the plane is about to take off, my brother calls. My heart sinks. My mother has recently suffered a series of health challenges. When my brother calls, it’s usually bad news. 

My phone is supposed to be in airplane mode, so I text him that I’m on a plane. 

“Call me when you land.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“Yes.”

The quick flight provides time for a Rosary before I call my brother back in the terminal and learn that Mom just died in a single-vehicle car accident. 

After unpacking and repacking my suitcase, I’m back on the road, headed for my childhood home. 

The last 20 minutes of our journey feel like 20 years. That stretch of Highway 41 is inseparable from countless happy memories: Mom bringing me home from college for Christmas break. Mom taking me to see the same jeweler who designed her engagement ring so I could put a diamond on Laura’s hand. Driving home to Greenville to tell her she’s a grandmother.

The baseball game at the end of the week now seems out of the question. Or does it? 

Friday morning, I decide that Benny and I will attend after all. It’s the last opportunity to go early for batting practice, and I am more aware than ever that time spent with family is the most precious of commodities. 

Besides, baseball has been a healing balm before. Just a season earlier, I was set to go to the Brewers’ home opener until Mom suffered a massive stroke. 

Instead, we drove home from the hospital — 30 miles per hour down the interstate through one of those April blizzards that makes you doubt whether spring will ever arrive — listening to the game on the radio as the Brewers closed out a thrilling 3-2 victory.

Then there was the summer of 2011, when, after years of infertility, a positive pregnancy test on Father’s Day was followed by an ultrasound showing us a heart that wasn’t beating. 

The Brewers’ subsequent 23-6 run meant everything to me precisely because in the grand scheme of things, it meant nothing.

When to be like children

On the way to the ballpark, a couple of car wrecks on I-94 have Benny and me running way behind. 

When we finally make it through the turnstiles, I attempt a shortcut to the left field bleachers. It fails, wasting even more time. I am near despair. 

In dismay, I glance toward the field. 

Crack! A massive home run rockets straight at us. 

I’m not saying God guided that ball toward Benny and me. But, I’m not saying He didn’t. 

The game, too, is a masterpiece. Two quick outs in the ninth inning bring the Brewers to the cusp of victory until a double followed by another base hit send the tying run hurtling toward the plate. 

A miraculous throw home beats the runner and secures the win. 

Euphoria. 

As I round second base of my life, I sometimes wonder whether it’s appropriate to delight in baseball this much at this age. 

Then again, maybe it makes sense that in the most desolate moments of life, the Lord — who insists we become like children to enter His Kingdom — would reassure me of His presence through a children’s game.

Steve Karlen is a husband and father of five. He and his family live in Fitchburg.