EVERYONE IS IN SOMEBODY'S BULLPEN SOME TIME

In one of his recent columns, George Will had a delightful sentence which may be quoted many times. Maybe I'll be the first. Being largely an observer and writer of politics and a baseball aficionado, he wrapped both these, his interests, into one sentence: "Politics is not crucial to the principle ingredients of happiness cheerful children, feisty friends, fulfilling work and a strong bullpen."

He illustrated each of the first three points but left the strong bullpen unexplained. The first three needed no explanation and I suspect he knew that every red-blooded American knew what a strong bullpen meant, although there may be a few out there who think it is a strong fence to keep a bull from roaming.

Anyway, it was this latter for happiness that set me thinking, who is in my bullpen, backing me up, rooting for me, ready, willing and able to come to help me win my game when I'm a'wearied, doing his stuff in his particular field?

Who do I need in my bullpen? Or you? I think immediately of the old childhood doggerel, "Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief, rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief." They weren't classified as occupants of your bullpen or backup systems. The visible buttons on your attire were so named off, and the last button named was the type of person you would marry. However, a strong bullpen might start off the same way.

I want a good strong doctor down there in my bullpen, one who has taken the time to learn about pills and potions and stitches and lotions, leaving me to pursue my interests. The human body is not a guaranteed machine always working in perfect order. Something slips, cracks, snaps, turns, burns, gets stopped up, but, hey, there he/she is. "Come on. Get me going again!"

Never has there been such a time in history when you need a lawyer. Someone falls on your steps, pulls out in front of you, trips on your wire tomato basket, chokes on your barbecue smoke, says you raise Lyme Disease ticks in your yard. A shingle blew off your house and broke the biggest blossom on his Peace Rose.

I want someone down there in my bullpen who knows about courts and counts, bails and jails, judges and juries, pleas and fees, and all those other things encased in those long rows of big, fat books in lawyer's offices I haven't had time to read.

Civilization is such that we all need merchants. I can't leave my game to go down to the Spice Islands for my cinnamon, to Jamaica for my bananas. If I went to some cotton field to pick a bag of cotton, spun it in to thread, wove it into cloth, cut and sewed it into my clothes, seven innings of my game would be gone.

Boy! Don't we all wish we had the chiefs in our bullpens, or at least the chief we need at the moment. Usually you start with the receptionist before you enter the labyrinthine hallways, pass by many closed doors, get re-directed and re-re-directed before you reach the chief, but it is comforting to know he or she is out there somewhere. The one who has the say-so. Maybe your doctor or lawyer could ring one up for you in case you are a'wearied by seeming to pitch all balls and never a strike.

As for the rest of the doggerel, "Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief," I'd like to substitute, "Teacher, minister, repairer of teeth," not only to make it rhyme but to bolster control of my own game by just knowing such ones are out there, waiting.

A minister? Yes, yes, I need him/her, especially when my St. Thomas days are upon me, my Still Waters get stormy and I find pig weeds growing in my Green Pastures.

As for a teacher, well, make that the Teacher, with capital letters and perhaps all the rest will fall into place. This is not to say that your bullpen backups are not also your friends, or maybe even some of your children. George Will gave these special box seats. I'm just going along with him.

Who is in your bullpen? In whose bullpen are you?

REJOICE!