By Allen Johnson, Ph.D.

ONE OF MY ALL-TIME BEST FRIENDS is Rick Harrington, a good-looking, red-headed Irishman. When Rick was in school he was the shortest kid in his class-something the other guys never let him forget.

Rick was only 5’6”, but he was built like a rock. He spent hours in bench-press twice his weight. Still, the short jokes continued, and every laugh was like a tiny death. He never said a word; he just did what he did best.

What Rick did better than almost any other kid was play baseball. In the field he had the speed to chase down a shallow line drive or pull in a high fly against the fence. At bat he could smack the ball to any field; he just could not quite manage to loft the ball over the fence.

He could get close-plenty of doubles and triples-but never a home run. The last game of the season was for the conference championship. More than anything, Rick wanted to swat one into the next county.

The first time at bat, Rick popped out. When he jogged back to the dugout, he looked up into the stands. He caught the eye of a tall black man in a white T-shirt under a black suit coat. The man stood up and raised his fist.

“You can do it,” the man said, his eyes and mouth taut with determination. Rick smiled and nodded.

His second and third times at bat, Rick grounded out and walked. Each time the opposing team jeered, and each time the black man stood and raised his big fist like a victorious boxer.

In the bottom of the ninth, Rick’s team was down by one. With two outs and one run on second, Rick walked to the batter’s box. A man with red veins in his face shouted. “He’s too little to swing that bat; too small to hit that ball.”

Rick lifted his right hand for timeout, stepped out of the box, adjusted his grip, and refocused his thoughts. “See the ball,” he said to himself.

The first pitch caught the outside corner. Strike one. The second pitch was a high curve. Rick cocked and swung. The ball popped into the catcher’s mitt. Rick twisted like a corkscrew and fell to the ground. Strike two.

“Hey, peanut, whacha doin’ in the dirt?” shouted the red-faced man.

Rick stood up and dusted his pants. Then he turned, cinched up his batting glove, and looked into the stands. The black man was standing, the sun shining over his shoulder. “You can do it, son,” he said.

Rick stepped back into the box. The pitcher went stretch and kicked high. Rick pulled back and swung-relaxed but swift-looking down the barrel of the bat at the moment of contact. He knew it was gone. The center fielder watched the ball streak over his head and into the parking lot. Rick rounded the bases in a dream. Rick looked into the stands. The black man was at the fence now, jumping with both arms high over his head. Rick pushed his way through his teammates to the man, whose arms were spread eagle now, his palms pressed against the cyclone fence. Rick jammed his fingers through the wire barrier, interlacing his fingers with those of this kindred spirit.

Eyes glistening, Rick searched for words. “Thank you, mister,” he said. “Thank you.”

I want to be clear about the point of this story. It is not about beating the odds. It is not even about encouragement, although both are commendable virtues. It is about empathy. The black man in the stands was a kindred spirit; he understood the pain of being falsely labeled as inferior or inadequate; he recognized with laser accuracy the symptoms of petty prejudices.

Prejudices take all shapes. They are not limited to race, creed, or nationality. Prejudices can be found in every fat joke, every slur about intelligence, and certainly every insult about one’s diminutive stature. The black man understood this-deep down, way beyond superficial understanding-and he took the side of the ridiculed. Should we not follow his lead? Should we not stand up for the downtrodden? Should we not disallow slander of any kind? And should we not celebrate the small victories of all the oppressed? (That is my theme-about what we can do for others. But I offer one other footnote-about what we can do for ourselves. I know Rick Harrington as well as my brother-and love him just as much. Over the years, I have been moved by his spiritual development. When I first met Rick, I discovered that he despised the inevitable short jokes. He responded with searing silence or a volley of his own brand of sarcasm. That was years ago; all of that is gone now. Today, when someone slings a short joke, Rick defuses the tension by poking fun at himself. “You’re right,” he quips. “Did you know you can actually see my feet on my drivers license? Now that’s short.” That kind of gentle self-effacement only comes from great internal security.

Rick knows what is ideal-a world free of taunting prejudices-but until that day arrives, he will take charge of the only thing he does control: his response to rudeness.)