Speaking of dreams, Mom and I got to watch one come true Sunday morning. Until then, Swiss tennis phenom Roger Federer had won 13 major titles, one short of Pete Sampras’s record, and every major at least once except for the French, the only major played on the slower surface of clay. For the last 4 years, Spanish tennis phenom Rafael Nadal, possibly the greater clay-courter ever, had beaten him at the French. The first year Nadal knocked him out in the semis followed by three consecutive years in the finals. Sportswriters and tennis fans routinely suggested Roger as the best tennis player ever, but his lack of a French Open title always added a question mark to that coronation. Without it, one could argue that any of the five players who had won all four majors deserved the “best ever” crown. The French was the thorn in Federer’s side, the victory he wanted more than any other. Last year when Nadal beat him for the third time in the French final, Federer wept.

This year, thanks to a shocking fourth-round exit by Nadal and typically brilliant and consistent play by Federer, the Swiss legend had what we thought was his best opportunity to win the one title he lacked – by beating the man who had stopped Nadal. Perhaps no one in the world was rooting for the other guy, except maybe his own mother. Although I worked until 7am and the match started at 8am, I drank some coffee and stayed up to (I hoped) witness history with Mom. Federer started off hot and never looked back, giving outclassed Swede Robin Soderling a memorable lesson on how to win a major final. We cheered. Roger cried. I posted the happy news on Facebook.

Especially a day after seeing Up, Federer’s amazing feat and career got me thinking about the whole realm of human endeavor. On one hand, I know that our lives here are just a blink in eternity, a “mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (James 4:14). The most important goals of our lives should be to love God and love people (Mark 12:29-31), not to win games or money or titles. So why do I scream until hoarse and jump up and down at a Stars game Saturday night, only to find myself too self-conscious to stand alone, sing too loudly, or raise my hands in worship at church on Sunday night?

On the other hand, God intentionally gave us our abilities and opportunities, and I believe he is pleased when we use them. As Olympic gold medal sprinter Eric Liddell said in Chariots of Fire, “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure”.

Collectively the human race, despite all its many varieties of darkness, wields a tremendous amount of God-given talent. Athletes like Federer, musicians like Pavarotti, artists like Da Vinci, businessmen like Buffett, and inventors like Edison have used their gifts to enrich us all. Although we regrettably have a tendency to idolize the people who possess great gifts rather than the God who provided them, I am truly grateful to share this planet with such amazing talents as Roger Federer.

The Dallas Morning News put together a really nice website about the new Cowboys Stadium. I’m sure you already have excuses to complain about it, but you have to admit that it’s an amazing structure. Four months till the U2 concert!

I found an interesting article about a little-known pitcher from the 1950s and 1960s named Steve Dalkowski. Everyone who saw him pitch said he was absolutely the fastest pitcher they’d ever seen, faster than Ryan, Feller, or any of the other fireballers who might come to mind. Unfortunately his speed was all he had; his control was nonexistant. For his career, he averaged 6.2 hits and 12.6 strikeouts per 9 innings (!) in the minors, but also 12.2 walks, which prevented him from ever reaching the big leagues.

My career as a baseball player was short, limited to a year of tee ball and a year of “real” baseball around age 6. I think I played second base and outfield. After that I took a break from the sport until junior high, when my parents told me about a pitcher named Nolan Ryan. Big Tex. The legendary flamethrower who happened to pitch for the local MLB club. I went to a few games with the family and started watching on TV.

The more I watched, the more fascinated I became, largely with the pitchers. The guy on the mound had so many options – location, spin, speed, delivery, even illegal tricks. Some guys like Nolan relied largely on their fastball, hoping to blow the ball past the batter. Some guys like Maddux had outstanding control, walking very few and placing the ball exactly where they wanted it. Some guys threw lots of breaking balls or exotic stuff like knuckleballs. Some guys like Clemens could do pretty much everything. Adding to the complexity was the skills, tendencies, and handedness of each batter. Some batters liked it high and fast, while others jumped on a curveball away or a slider inside. Much of the game’s drama came from the battle between pitcher and batter: part physical, part mental, part luck. Which one would guess right? Which one had the stuff to beat the other? Which one would blink?

Although I never really learned how and don’t have any particular ability for it, I still think it would be fun to be a pitcher. The batter steps into the box, and I reach into my bag o’ tricks for the right pitch. Heat high and tight to rattle his cage? A nice hard forkball in the dirt to make him feel foolish? A slider on the outside corner to prove I can throw strikes instead of walking him?

At some point I made the connection between pitching in baseball and serving in tennis, a sport that I play. I apply some of the same principles to my serve: looking for my opponent’s weak areas, moving the ball around, changing the speed and spin to keep him off balance. After all, even a 100mph fastball or 130mph serve can be sent right back at you if your opponent knows exactly what to expect every time.

Unless Brenden decides to give baseball a try, I might never pick up a glove again, but pitching is still fun to think about and just as fun to watch. I get so jazzed when I see highlight reels of strikeouts, especially when the batter goes down swinging and misses the ball by a foot. I saw Nolan do it over and over and over again, and it still gives me chills.