.39955 Is Not .400
His integrity got down to the small things, the little things people mightn’t know much about, but from which a man’s integrity and honor radiate.
Life often presents a man with not just with one moment of truth, but many small moments of truth, each providing a test of manhood.
In Williams’ case, one such moment came on Sept. 28, 1941. “The Kid’s” batting average stood at .39955 going into a season-closing double-header.
Williams had been slumping at the plate, and his manager, Joe Cronin, offered to let him warm the bench for the last two games. That would get him a coveted .400 batting average for the season because the real figure would be rounded up.
“Teddy Ballgame” would have none of it. He wouldn’t sneak into a .400 season. Instead, he went to the plate eight times, knocking out six hits and closing the season at .406.
This is the kind of unexpected but seemingly small test of character that may demand a quick decision, yet can be more revealing than a bigger test. And however small the test seems, the result separates the sublime from the superior and the great from the good.
92 Is Not 93
Some of us only hope we meet these small moments of truth like Ted Williams.
Once upon a time nearly 30 years ago in high school, I didn’t. At the close of either a chemistry exam or grading period (I can’t remember which), I had a 92, a B+; 93 was an “A.”
So I approached the teacher, who was serving as library proctor one day, and asked him to give me the point. “It’s just a point,” I reasoned, “can’t you just give it to me. I really want that ‘A.’”
He patiently said no, and I didn’t listen to his reason. That night, I told my father the story, indignant the teacher hadn’t seen things my way. I was proud to have asked for what I thought was rightfully mine. I had tried so hard; surely I deserved the top grade.
Dad was aghast and darn mad. “Don’t you ever ask again,” he said, wagging a finger, “for something you didn’t earn. A 92 is not a 93.”
I was mortified. I wronged the teacher and disgraced myself by asking for something I did not earn. My father’s admonition is one reason I appreciate, one reason we must all appreciate, the ineffable something a man like Ted Williams represents.
A Real Man
“The Splendid Splinter” would have agreed with my old man. He knew a .39955 was not a .400, and he wouldn’t pretend it was. Indeed, he likely wasn’t even tempted to sit out that game.
That’s the kind of guy who gives up his five best years as a pro-athlete to fight for his nation. It’s the kind of guy we call a hero.
All Williams wanted out of life, he said, was for a passerby who saw him on the street to say, “there goes the greatest hitter who ever lived.”
He deserved better. A more fitting observation would have been this:
There goes a real man.
(This article courtesy of Agape Press.)
