Baseball and puppets

By the time you read this I will have spent a week in the sun, enjoying watching my husband in his natural habitat, the ball park. If you’ve never gone to a baseball game with Ben, you just don’t know what you’re missing.

When we were in the Navy stationed in Willow Grove, Pennsylvania, Ben and I would go to Vets’ Stadium in Philly when the Mets came to town. Back then, active duty military could get seats in the nosebleed section for $2 each, so we could afford it even though we could barely afford food.

One night after Lenny Dykstra had been traded by the Mets to the Phillies, we were sitting waaaaaay up high watching these tiny men on the field, when Dykstra came up to bat for the Phillies. As he stepped into the batter’s box, Ben yelled at the top of his (then) very powerful lungs, “Siddown, ya bum!” Lenny stepped back out of the box and turned to look up into the stands, and Ben yelled, “You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn!” Lenny shook his head and got ready to bat. Baseball is a full-body and very emotional experience if you’re a Sargent.

Ben has been a crazy Mets fan since he was nine years old, and most of his family joins him in this ongoing hope-without-hope. Every year I listen to the conversation surrounding this great pitcher or that new infielder and how the manager is going to get it together this year and they all stink since Davey retired but the Mets are going to be great once again. And sometimes they do start out great, but then July happens.

Without fail, every single year since my daughter was born in 1986 and we watched the Mets win the NLCS on TV during labor and her delivery, they choke right before the All-Star break. It is 100% predictable. It’s so regular we could base the calendar on it. There is no reason for this to happen, since they have enough talent to be good almost every year. But happen it does, and there goes another season, down the drain.

And yet my husband and his family cling to hope, only to be dashed every year mid-summer. At least it gives us something to talk about.

But it’s not July yet, so hope is in fresh bloom in the South Florida spring training camp, and we have been there to breathe in the sweet fragrance. Please let us enjoy our delusion while it lasts.

Ben’s sisters even got us matching Mets shirts this year. In case you didn’t know, 8 was Gary Carter’s number, 13 was Lee Mazzilli, 12 was Ron Darling, and '86 was the last year they won the World Series. I’m sorry to say we did not make it on the fan cam.

We did, however, spend a few glorious days on the beach, and that was worth the whole trip. I mean, I like baseball, but give me a chair in the sand when it’s sunny and 83° and I’m a happy girl.

Unfortunately, Ben came down with a cold halfway through the week. But he was a trooper and came to the beach anyway. I promised I would not share the photo of him sleeping in his chair wearing a hoodie with his swimming trunks, socks and hiking boots, legs covered in a beach towel. You can create your own mental image.

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Anyway, since we have been baseballing and beaching and seafood-eating ourselves into a vacation stupor, I thought I would share this story that a reader-who-would-prefer-to-remain-anonymous shared with me a while back. When I read it the first time, I wasn’t quite sure where it was going. But then I read the last sentence and *BAM*—I got it.

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The Puppet Master leaned down, placing the final touches on His puppet. He gracefully dabbed black paint in the eye sockets and leaned back to admire His work.

“How is it going, sir?” the voice of the Puppet Master’s Chief Helper called out.

“Fine, fine. Just the way I want,” responded the Puppet Master as He set the puppet aside to dry. The Helper began to speak, then stopped. The Puppet Master glanced his way and said, “You may ask.”

“Well, sir, what are your plans for him?” The Puppet Master sat back and answered thoughtfully. “I have a few options. I could make him to do exactly what I want. I could make him love me. I could make him hate me. I could even make him do want I don’t want him to do, then destroy him for it.”

The Chief Helper looked at Him, confused. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

The Puppet Master continued as if He did not hear him. “I could make billions of these and make them do the most horrible acts, actions that I find despicable, and then hold them responsible and punish them for it. I could set a few aside and make them love me and worship me. I could command billions to worship and love me, or make them to do otherwise.”

The Chief Helper blurted out, “But, sir—”

“Or,” the Puppet Master continued, “I could give them life and let them decide for themselves how to live. I could allow them to rebel against me. I could create billions and tell them what I expect out of them. I could give them freedom of choice and warn them of the consequences of their own actions. I could reward those that listen to me and punish those that don’t.”

The Puppet Master stopped as the Chief Helper began to speak. “How will that option play out? Won’t those that rebel be out of your control? How many will listen, how many will choose you?”

The Puppet Master began to laugh as He replied, “You know me well, better than most of my helpers. Do you really think I cannot handle all of this? Can I not make this work out, and work all of the possible actions for my glory? Am I not their Master, and can I not control the outcome of this option?”

The Chief Helper looked away, embarrassed that He even asked. He knew the Master and felt the shame of doubting His ability.

“If you do this, will their love for you be genuine?”

“Of course.”

“Will their rebellion be out of your control?”

“Never.”

“So both their love and their rebellion will be theirs to truly choose?”

The Puppet Master stood and cradled His creation. “Most will hate me and do the things I tell them not to do. Many will hate my name, even though I gave them life. But some will love me. Some will follow my teachings, and I will be their friend. We will fellowship, and their love for me will be real, not forced or programmed.”

He moved to the other side of the room toward a large door. The Chief Helper followed, wondering what was behind it.

The Puppet Master swung it open. From wall to wall, from floor to ceiling, were shelves of puppets. Multitude countless puppets, possibly trillions. Very few looked alike, but they all had one thing in common.

There were no strings attached to any of their bodies.

The Chief Helper was speechless, unaware that this room existed. The Puppet Master looked back with a grin on his face. “Here we go,” He said as He walked into the room.

He chose two puppets and walked to the far side of the puppet room, toward another door. The Chief Helper followed as he heard the Puppet Master call out, “This is the beginning.”

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Please let our fellow reader and writer know in the comments if you loved this story as much as I did!