In this special preview from Mysterious Ways magazine, one man’s good deed repays an old debt of gratitude…
I was psyched to play softball with my friends. Most of us had played sports together in high school, and joining an adult rec league was our way to stay tight. But when I jogged out onto the field, our manager stopped me.
“You missed practice, Rick,” he said. “You’re going to have to sit this game out. That’s our rule.”
I didn’t argue. I had bailed on the last two practices. I blamed work, but deep down, I knew I could have made a better effort.
It was a lesson in personal responsibility I thought I’d learned back in my sophomore year of high school, from my old coach Al Manfredi.
Taking my seat on the bench, I thought back to that day. I was the starting point guard for my high school basketball team, the guy who ran the offense. I was feeling sick, so I skipped practice.
I didn’t think much about it until our next game, when Coach Manfredi pulled me aside. “You’re on the bench,” was all he said. It was all he needed to say.
He retired shortly after I graduated, and I hadn’t seen him in a while. But I never forgot his lesson. Until now. It felt like I’d let him down all over again.
“What’s up?” my girlfriend Donna asked. She’d come to watch me play. I told her how bummed I was—and disappointed in myself.
“Maybe we should just go grab some dinner?” she said, patting my hand.
“Sure,” I said. I wasn’t doing much good moping on the bench.
The restaurant was a few miles away. About halfway there we hit a traffic jam at a busy intersection. I craned my neck out the window. What was the holdup?
It was a dog, a short-haired, long-tailed mutt with cocker-spaniel ears, running in confused circles, clearly panicked, searching for an escape route from the middle of the intersection.
Someone had to step up and help him. “Pull over,” I told Donna. Lord, maybe I can do at least one thing right today.
I jumped out and threaded my way between cars to the intersection. “Here, boy,” I called, crouching down and extending my hand. He looked wary. I reached out to grab his collar and he bolted away.
The dog headed into traffic. I thought he was a goner, but somehow he made it across to an open field. Dodging cars, I chased after him. Donna too.
We must have run a mile and a half before the dog lay down, panting.
“Gotcha!” I said, snagging his collar. I wiped the sweat from my brow and reached for his identification tag.
“Whoever he belongs to,” I said to Donna, catching my breath, “I’m going to have to thank them for giving me a workout in lieu of my softball game.”
I read the tag. “Donna, you’ll never believe this,” I said. “Not in a million years.”
We loaded the dog into the car and drove to the owner’s home. With the dog cradled in my arms, I rang the bell. The door opened, and there stood Coach Al Manfredi, staring in amazement.
“Thank you!” he said. “He wandered off four days ago. We’d given up hope of ever seeing him again. Rick, I don’t know how you found him, but I owe you one.”
I shook my head. “No,” I answered. “I’d say we’re even.”
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