Dad thought it was so funny every time baseball came up to remind me of that time when I was seven years old and I skipped church. That day Brother Connors, the organist in our ward and at the Astrodome, brought Dale Murphy who was in town for the Braves/Astros games.
Dad liked to point out that all my friends got autographs and met the best Mormon baseball player ever, and he liked to think that it somehow affected my future attendance of church meetings.
Too bad Dad's not around anymore because he would have loved me telling the story of how Brother Murphy sat down in front of us a few weeks ago at the American Fork/Lehi High School football game. I've seen him at a couple of games since, but nothing beats that first night when it took me half the game to figure out what I'd say to my childhood hero in the flesh. I was so nervous.
By the way, I finally found a use for all of John Poor's taunting and jokes. My friend from Denver was relentless about how he hated baseball and ended up in the Boston mission with President Murphy, and I loved baseball my whole life and ended up in soccer-crazed Ecuador. By the way, John, he says "hi" and remembers your middle name.
I wonder if meeting The Murph will affect my future attendance of high school football games.
And P.S. At 5'11" I was standing on the bleacher above him. He hasn't shrunk that much since his playing days.
