The Mechanic's Gift - It is Finished. John Saurino

      CHAPTER 4

      The Tip of the Bat

      It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We were back from church, and Mary Lynn was in the kitchen cleaning up our lunch mess. I had just completed my search for batting cages in Tulsa, when Nigel approached with glove in hand. His lack of confidence painted a backdrop to the look of concern on his face.

      “Hey Dad, are we going to practice today?” Those brown eyes were filled with both hope and fear of failure.

      “We sure are, Buddy!” I replied and placed him on my lap. “I located a place where we can practice batting. Grab your stuff, and we’ll go over there.”

      “Me too! Me too!” Hans interrupted.

      “Okay men, let’s get going.” I lifted Nigel back to his feet before they ran out in search of their gear. When we walked through the kitchen on our way to the garage, Mary Lynn kissed me on the cheek stating, “You boys have fun. I will be here if you need anything.”

      “Thanks, Baby Doll, see you in a couple of hours.”

      The batting cages were located at a small outdoor venue. The gravel road curved slightly as it led to the fenced-in areas located at the back of the field. There were a few parked cars with two boys batting in different enclosures. Their fathers stood outside the chain-link, occasionally saying something that was not quite audible from this distance. The attendant worked behind the machines, but walked out to greet us on our approach.

      “How much to practice?” I questioned.

      “It’s five dollars for fifty of the yellow practice balls or seven dollars if you want real baseballs.”

      “How fast are the balls coming at him?”

      “Right now, the machines are set at forty-five miles per hour.”

      “Sounds good. I guess we will start with the yellow practice balls.”

      Soon, Nigel was at the plate with the pitching machine firing away. He hammered the very first pitch, which immediately brought the problem to light. He began twisting the bat while repeatedly opening and closing his hands in pain. The next five pitches went untouched.

      Although he held a good stance, he would purposely dip the head of the bat to miss the ball as it passed by. I stopped the machine for a moment.

      “Hey, Buddy, what’s wrong?”

      “Nothing, Dad, I’m fine. Start up the machine again, okay?” He was trying to regain his confidence.

      Again, he made perfect contact with the first pitch then repeated his painful hand gestures. The following series of balls saw no bat. Eventually, the machine needed a break to reload, and Nigel left the cage in total defeat.

      I had watched my son begin a very bad habit of dropping the tip of the bat down with each pitch. He was too young to realize that his failure was a direct result of the hand pain created with ball contact. Subconsciously, he lowered his bat to circumvent the uncomfortable experience, and I felt he was confused by the pain caused with a good hit. I needed more data to confirm my suspicions.

      “Hey man, do you mind if I take a few swings?” I asked.

      Nigel looked up from the ground which had occupied his view since leaving the cage.

      “Sure, Dad, you try,” he replied, as I experienced his feeling of failure in my soul.

      Although the bat was too short, I was able to make contact with the third pitch. The yellow practice balls were between baseball and softball size, made of fairly hard rubber, with multiple dimples covering the surface. But the real issue was the fact that they were much heavier than a baseball. It was basic physics.

      Force equals mass times acceleration. Momentum was also a factor in there somewhere. Essentially, the force from the impact of the ball with the bat was dependent upon the weight of the ball and how fast it was traveling. The increase in speed of the balls thrown by kid’s pitching to Nigel was enough to create pain in his hands from the bat. If a nine-year-old pitcher threw a 50 mph ball, instead of the 35 mph balls coming from the old machine Nigel was used to, then the impact created at the bat had increased significantly!

      There was no doubt that as I continued to hit balls, the sting from the bat in my hands became more apparent. I had a diagnosis, but I needed to develop a treatment plan. More research would be required. I opened the gate to exit the cage and squatted down to be eye level with Nigel. I used my finger to gently raise his chin so I could look him squarely in the eyes.

      “That’s enough for today, Buddy, but I want you to listen to me very carefully. We are going to beat this. I am confident that you can do it. You have to trust me and believe what I am telling you is the truth. Sometimes in life we come up against giants that seem unbeatable, but God says that with him all things are possible. I want you to always remember that together we can accomplish anything!”

      Nigel nodded in affirmation while trying to overcome his unbelief.

      He was mentally beaten, angry, and confused, all at the same time. Failure was new to him. I was unaware at the time, but the outcome of this new struggle would have lifelong ramifications. I leaned forward to give him a hug and felt his brother join in by wrapping his small arms around us as far as they could reach. On the way home, we stopped for a hot fudge sundae to smear over the new wound.

      “Let’s call Mom to see if she wants anything,” Nigel said as we entered the store.

      The failure of the afternoon was quickly drowned in the joy of chocolate syrup and melted ice cream.

      That evening, after the boys were in bed, I proceeded to do what I had done all of my life. My great friend, Vince Sorrentino, didn’t call me “Mr. Research” for no reason. Vinny always had some wisecrack comment throughout our lives together, so I respectively called him “Mr. Wisdom.” Our nick-names were appropriate, and we both recognized their truth.

      I learned the value of proper research at a very young age. My parents, being educators, bought an Encyclopedia Britannica book series for our home. My father enjoyed his career as a college professor and research scientist. I guess it was in my genes. I fully believed that I did not have to reinvent the wheel, I only needed to find that effective rolling object someone else had created. I was sitting at the computer in mental search mode when my wife kissed the back of my head.

      “What are you doing?” she asked as she rubbed my shoulders.

      I turned to give her a kiss and said, “We didn’t have the best day at the batting cage. Unfortunately, Nigel has lost his confidence in hitting. I think I know why and I’m trying to find a solution.”

      “You will,” she stated with confidence before returning to her book on the couch. My search for answers went deep into the night.

      It was Monday afternoon, and I finished surgery early with only one case on the schedule. I stopped by the shop to check on the crew.

      “How’s it going?” I asked Mickey when he climbed out from under the car.

      “We are on schedule for the next race,” he replied. “Shail and I have come up with a plan to help Jim get the extra speed he needs to be competitive.”

      “That’s awesome, Mick! I have something to do today, but I will be back this week so you can sit down and explain it to me then. If that’s okay with you?”

      “Sure, no problem. We’ll do it later. After all…you are just a driver,” he said with a smile and returned to his work.

      I left the shop and went straight to the bookstore. I bought three different books on hitting techniques and two videotapes sitting on the shelf nearby. When I got home, Nigel met me at the kitchen’s door to the garage with glove, bat, and ball in hand.

      “Are