“It’s not over until the fat lady sings!”
Deflated and weary, the young softball players slumped into the dugout, staring at the scoreboard as the weight of a four-run deficit loomed over them.
It was the bottom of the ninth, and hope felt as distant as the outfield fence. But just as doubt threatened to settle in, the blond-haired minister stood tall, his voice cutting through the silence as he used those words as a rallying cry to shake off defeat and step up to the plate one last time.
“If we put our faith in God, He will deliver us from this would-be debacle,” Dad assured, his voice steady with conviction.
Drawing from a beloved Bible story, he pressed the point home. “When the Israelites were trapped between the Red Sea and the advancing Egyptian army, with no visible way out, God parted the waters. He led His people safely through, while their enemies were swallowed by the sea.”
“Let me get this straight, Pastor,” Daniel “Danny” Bartolomeo teased, adjusting his batting helmet before stepping up to practice his swing. “If we trust in the Lord, He’ll grant us our first softball victory against Gideon’s Army from First Presbyterian Church in Beaver—and then the field will split open and swallow our opponents whole?”
“I’ve got an even better analogy,” James “Jimmy” Walker Sr. joked, snatching a bat from the pile. “God will rain down fire and brimstone to wipe out our adversaries—giving us the ultimate triumph!”
“Now, I know you two are having fun with your wild science-fiction fantasies,” noted the Bible scholar with a knowing smile. “But the Bible does promise blessings to those who obey God’s commandments—real ones, not the kind that involve fire and brimstone raining down on a softball field.”
“Mark my words, you’ll see soon enough!”
Long before that fateful ninth inning, the Ellwood City Assembly of God Holy Rollers had formed with a mission bigger than just playing ball.
As part of the Beaver County Pentecostal Fellowship Softball League, the team became more than a gathering of athletes—it was a ministry on the field, drawing new converts who longed for a chance to play sports beyond high school.
Their home turf, Stiefel Park, overlooked Ellwood City, a scenic backdrop to every thrilling match.
Here, under the summer sky, the Holy Rollers built camaraderie and conviction, proving that faith and sportsmanship made for a formidable combination; and tonight, as the team stared down a four-run deficit, that foundation of faith would be tested like never before.
With the count at three balls and two strikes, the long-haired Italian locked eyes on the leather-clad orb as it hurtled toward him. The crack of the bat echoed through the ballfield, sending the ball sailing into right field. Caught off guard, the hitter hesitated for a split second before sprinting toward first base, the crowd roaring in excitement.
Frank “Dick” Allen, the team’s head coach, stood nearby, a proud grin spreading across his face.
As the young hitter jogged to first, breaking a three-inning drought with no hits, Allen clapped him on the back. “Good hustle,” he expressed, his voice full of encouragement, acknowledging the effort that reignited the team’s momentum.
With excitement welling up inside him, Jimmy sent two consecutive foul balls flying before making solid contact. The soft globe-like object rocketed in a sharp line drive, slipping past the shortstop and racing toward center field, putting runners on first and second.
From the bleachers behind home plate, Elaine Walker—his wife—and their two small children, Christine and James ‘Jimbo’ Walker, Jr., erupted into cheers. Their voices rang out above the crowd, celebrating the clutch hit that kept the Holy Rollers’ momentum alive.
Carmen Venezie—a fiery spitfire in his own right—stepped up to the plate, eyes locked on the pitcher. The home crowd roared to life, rallying behind the kindhearted twentysomething, urging him on. With a powerful swing, he sent the ball rocketing past the left fielder, straight to the fence line, igniting another wave of cheers.
Fans and players alike sat on the edge of their seats, eyes locked on Mark Sbarro as he approached the plate. A musclebound giant who could pass for The Incredible Hulk, he exuded sheer power, gripping the bat with authority as the crowd held its breath, waiting for the next explosive play.
Seated beside James “Jimmy” Allen in the stands, this mild-mannered eighth grader let out a high-pitched squeal as the mustached hulkster stepped up and crushed the white-stitched sphere over the fence.
The grand slam sent the crowd into a frenzy, tying the heated game at fifteen-all and reigniting the Holy Rollers’ hopes for an unbelievable comeback.
“In all seriousness,” said the first runner, his full beard and mustache framing a wide grin as he crossed home plate. “I’ll never doubt you again, Pastor Price—God really does bless those who obey His commandments.”
He exhaled deeply, the weight of the past week settling in. “Some of them were tough to swallow, but I’m glad I stayed true to each and every one.”
Pastor Price’s voice rang out, steady and unwavering. “All you need is the faith of a mustard seed!”
Flashing a wide grin, my big brother John swaggered up to the plate, settling into position on the left side. He loosened up with a few practice swings, the anticipation thick in the air, before sending a pop fly soaring into center field.
Though it looked like an easy out, the freckle-faced athlete sprinted full throttle toward first base. But when the lean teenager in the outfield fumbled the catch, the coach wasted no time—waving his arms and shouting for the runner to push on toward second.
By the time the center fielder scooped up the ball, the minister’s firstborn son was already barreling toward third. On the sideline, right next to the base, the preacher waved his arms, shouting encouragement, urging his offspring to push forward toward home plate.
A cloud of dust erupted as the Lincoln Junior-Senior High School freshman hurled himself headfirst into home plate. The spherical orb streaked through the air, landing in the catcher’s mitt at nearly the same instant—an agonizing heartbeat between triumph and defeat.
For a split second, everyone stood breathlessly until the umpire crossed his arms and exclaimed, “You’re safe.”
The dugout emptied as the players rushed the field, lifting my lifelong roommate onto their shoulders—raising him high, as if carrying the Ark of the Covenant through the parted waters of the Red Sea.
That day taught me something I’ve carried ever since: God doesn’t need grand miracles to prove His faithfulness.
Sometimes all He asks is that we step up to the plate, trust Him with the swing, and believe that even in the bottom of the ninth, He’s still writing the final score.