I parked the Vette outside of old Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. The New York Yankees faced the Camelot Knights in the seventh and final game of the 1927 World Series.

I pitched for the Knights. We led the Yankees 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning, but New York had the bases loaded with two outs. George Herman “Babe” Ruth, already a living legend, was at the plate. The plate umpire’s count was at three balls and two strikes.

Dressed in my full suit of armor, under my green and gold Knights’ jersey, #13, I took off both of my steel gloves and rubbed the baseball between all ten fingers of my sweat-soaked bare hands. Then I put the gloves back on and placed my right steel boot directly over the center of the pitcher’s rubber. I thought that I was ready to throw my next pitch to “the Bambino.” But at the last second, my arm muscles tensed up, and I decided to step back off the rubber. I tried to relax in front of some 70,000 Yankees’ fans. Everyone in the stadium was on his and her feet; they loudly screamed and cheered for “the Babe” to hit yet another game-winning home run.

Ruth had “SULTAN OF SWAT” boldly sewn on the back of his Yankees’ home-field uniform, and his famous “#3” was clearly visible between his broad, muscular shoulders. The Babe had to wait for me as I tried my best to collect myself. But I just stood there, to one side of the pitcher’s mound; I was nervously shaking in my dusty steel boots. To get looser, himself, Ruth smoothly stroked through several practice swings. He effortlessly waved his long 38-ounce bat, back and forth, repeatedly. Suddenly, the Babe paused and pointed to the center-field bleachers, as if that’s where he intended to park my next pitch.

Ruth anxiously awaited the pitch. He carefully positioned himself in the batter’s box, raking his baseball cleats into the clammy soil that surrounded home plate. When the Babe was comfortable with his stance, the left-handed slugger raised the heel of his left foot, just far enough to enable him to swivel the front part of his shoe, first to the left and then to the right, digging in as far as he could.

Meanwhile, I had returned to the pitching rubber. Once again, though, I lost my nerve and stepped back off the hill. I turned around and took a couple of steps toward second base. With my back to the plate, I reached into the rear pocket of my uniform and grabbed a bottle of tranquilizers. I choked down half a bottle of the little nerve pills.

The tranquilizers didn’t work. After a minute or so, my arm muscles remained tightly strung, like finely tuned guitar strings. Caught up in the tension of the moment, I was mentally stressed to the limit. I said to myself, “If I can throw one more strike, we’ll WIN the World Series. Oh, Lord, how else can I get loose and get control over my anxiety?”

Suddenly, God stood right beside me on the pitcher’s mound. She had read my mind and was also dressed in a Knights’ baseball uniform. But Her jersey had a big blue “#1” sewn on the back of it. The home-plate umpire hollered out, “Hey there, Wantsalittle! Your team has one too many players on the field. Somebody has to head for the bench!”

I wheeled around and hollered back, “Okay, just give me a minute here!” Then I looked at God and said, “The umpire and some 70,000 other people can see You standing here beside me. Did You forget to make Yourself invisible to everyone except me?”

“Damn! You’re absolutely right, Wantsalittle. When I finish speaking with you, it wouldn’t be too believable for all of these people and ballplayers if I simply vanished, right before their eyes. . . . Okay, I’ve got a plan. Nobody is warming up in the bullpen, as yet. As soon as I complete My task here, I’ll stroll out to the bullpen, which is mostly obstructed from view by the left-field bleachers, and disappear, without being noticed, from there.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a pretty good idea. Lord, it’s a good thing that You’ve got all of that long, slightly curled, blonde hair of Yours neatly tucked under Your baseball cap! But how are You going to hide Your beautiful brea—”

God interrupted me. She said, “Don’t you dare say the ‘B’ word!” Then the Lord untucked the shirt portion of Her Knights’ uniform. The jersey-top draped straight down, hanging loosely, from the upper section of God’s front torso, leaving Her previously apparent, well-rounded figure considerably less noticeable. The Lord said, “There, Wantsalittle, that should take care of that ‘protruding’ problem!”

I said, “God, You seem to have an answer for everything!”

God smiled and said, “Poet Edwin Markham wrote, ‘At the heart of the cyclone tearing the sky is a place of central calm.’ Wantsalittle, when tension has its grip on you, try to visualize yourself in a quiet, tranquil setting—some vacation spot where you generally go to relax.”

“Lord, You might be a little on the nervous side, Yourself, if You were about to pitch to the great Bambino!”

“Perhaps! But some tension can be advantageous. If you’re an athlete, for instance, you may need that shot of adrenaline to better prepare yourself for a moment of outstanding personal achievement. Your mind can only focus on one thought at a time. When your attention is vividly focused on performance, imaging the task at hand, there’s no time for thoughts of fear and doubt. Sharp concentration will enable you to sustain levels of peak performance, without experiencing undo stress, during those special—but what might otherwise be considered—anxious moments.”

“Right now, I’m going to follow Your suggestion of trying to imagine myself in a calm, peaceful setting.”

“Good idea! I’ll leave you alone now, so that you can concentrate or meditate for a few moments before you pitch to Babe Ruth. Just remember this: As you put things in proper perspective, it will be easier for you to relax and achieve peak performance. And get into the habit of forming images that will help you to relieve your momentary or longer-term tension.” The Lord then trotted off toward left field, on Her way to the bullpen.

With the game and the World Series on the line, I took a few extra seconds before I pitched to Ruth. I visualized myself sitting comfortably in the saddle-shaped crevasse of a fallen log, gently holding a limp fishing line between the thumb and forefinger of my relaxed right hand. The still, aqua-blue surface of the motionless pond in front of me reflected a peaceful, serene setting somewhere off in the beautiful backwoods of nature. Then I gently tossed the bottle of tranquilizers to one side and replaced the potentially harmful pills with my now-relaxed body and my composed, focused train of thought.

As the Bambino had patiently waited, over five minutes, for me to deliver the baseball, he was more than ready for my next pitch. Ruth had smashed a Major League record of sixty homers for the “Bronx Bombers” in the 154-game regular season, four more round-trippers than any team hit collectively in 1927.

Finally, I wound up and threw the ball to the Sultan of Swat. Pitching the baseball while wearing a full suit of armor wasn’t easy! Seemingly, the ball took several seconds to arrive at home plate; the baseball arched highly through the air before it eventually dropped down near the outside corner of the plate.

Perhaps Babe Ruth was expecting my fastball. Or perhaps the ball came in “just a bit outside,” out of Ruth’s reach. Or maybe the Sultan of Swat simply got over anxious. After all, the slow-traveling blooper pitch might have looked like a big white beach ball to the Babe. In any case, the Bambino took a mighty swing, but badly missed. Emphatically, the umpire called, “Strike Three . . . you’re OUT!”

I jumped for joy. Our Camelot Knights had just defeated the highly favored Yankees in “The House That Ruth Built.” The catcher dropped the ball that I had used to strike Ruth out. It was left half covered with dirt, lying close to home plate, in the Babe’s vacated left-foot print.

As proud as a peacock, I started celebrating. I yelled, “I thank God for helping me to relax. Imaging a calm, peaceful setting allowed me to perform to the best of my ability. This is truly a wonderful, kinglike feeling!”

(The moral of this episode: Whether you sharply focus on the task at hand or try to imagine yourself in a peaceful, serene setting, “imaging” can be a valuable psychological tool for reducing the degree of stress in anxiety-related circumstances!)

Back to the Learning Center

Back to the home page