THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Thursday, January 2, 1997 TAG: 9612310018
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A11 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Opinion
SOURCE: Patrick Lackey
LENGTH: 82 lines
If you lived in Hampton Roads in 1985, you remember Hurricane Gloria.
If ever a hurricane had this region dead in its sights, she was it. In the satellite shots of Gloria lurking off the Virginia coast, you could almost see her licking her chops at the thought of how good Hampton Roads would taste when she chewed it up.
The region was locked in an extended drought. At the very least, Gloria was sure to end it with drenching rains. That was the only good news for a fearful Hampton Roads.
The morning of the day that Gloria seemed certain to hurl herself at us, I snuck in what figured to be my last run for a while. I was jogging along the outskirts of the Christian Broadcasting Network empire when something truly odd struck me. Every sprinkler in sight was shooting out water for all it was worth.
The water, I'm sure, came from CBN wells - not the city system. Still, it seemed an abysmal waste to water lawns about to be soaked by inches of rain, if not a whole foot.
I remember thinking, ``Pat Robertson, you fool, a powerful hurricane is about to flood this place, and you're watering the lawn.''
The rest, of course, is history.
Not only did Gloria scurry away but most of the region, including CBN, barely got sprinkles.
Pat Robertson took credit for praying Gloria away. He had said on TV, ``In the name of Jesus of Nazareth, we command you to stop where you are and move away from land. . . .''
When he ran for president a few years later, he was much ridiculed for claiming to have prayed away a hurricane. I remember a friend quipping that Pat Robertson, Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart should have a kind of hurricane olympics, the winner being the one who prayed the most hurricanes away.
But I'll tell you this: Pat Robertson's lawn was watered on a day everyone else expected drenching rain.
Now here's another odd CBN tale.
This past October I was again jogging along my regular route. As I crossed a blacktop parking lot outside Founders Inn, I spied a golf ball smack in the middle of the lot. The fact a ball came to rest in the center of a hard, smooth, level surface struck me as mysterious. Adding to the mystery was the fact the nearest golf course is miles away from CBN.
The white ball could hardly have been more visible against the blacktop, so it's a wonder no one else had claimed it.
I scooped up the ball, figuring to give it to a golfing friend at work. I didn't have to slow down much to pick it up, because a chronic hamstring injury kept me from going fast. In fact, my right hamstring and left groin had conspired for 13 consecutive years to keep me from running hard for long distances. I could go four miles with my dog, Wuffda, stopping every 100 yards for him to sniff. But I had about given up on ever runnng well enough again to race.
At first I carried the golf ball in my right hand, but doing so felt terribly wrong. I almost threw the ball away after only a few strides. On a whim, I shifted the ball to my left hand. Suddenly I felt balanced and almost calm. Within 100 strides, my right hamstring seemed to turn from stone to relaxed muscle. I finished the run carrying the ball in my left hand, and it was my best run in a long time.
I have run with the golf ball in my left hand ever since. The change a nearly weightless ball made in my running got me to thinking about my form, and I made a key adjustment that seems to keep my groin from hurting. The golf ball takes care of the hamstring. The form change - my rump pushed forward so my back is straight - somehow protects my groin.
Now I'm like a kid with a new toy. The run with Wuffda feels like a warm-up, so I tack on four or five miles by myself. I go to bed wanting dawn to come so I can do my morning runs.
Several weeks after I found the ball, Regent University President Terry Lindvall mentioned to a group of editorial writers, including me, that Pat Robertson had taken up golf.
``Ahah,'' I thought. ``I'm carrying Pat's ball!''
Truth be told, I don't know who ordered the CBN lawns to be watered. I don't know for sure that I owe Pat Robertson a golf ball. The one I found is a Titleist 3. Maybe he plays a different brand.
It might be that another golf ball would heal me. Trust me on this, though: I'm sticking with the ball I've got. Only a runner who's been injured for years can truly appreciate how much I cherish my golf ball. And I think it's his. MEMO: Mr. Lackey is an editorial writer for The Virginian-Pilot.