A Test of Faith

Prayer and hope gave Aaron Small the strength to keep trying—even when it seemed like his baseball career was over.

By Aaron Small, Loudon, Tennessee

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The sound. A year later I can close my eyes and still hear it. Fifty-five thousand New York Yankees fans rising from their Yankee Stadium seats and cheering me.

I'd just pitched my heart out for more than six innings in a late season, do-or-die game against our archrivals, the Boston Red Sox. The division title was on the line.

Throwing sinkers, working the corners of the plate, I'd held the Sox to three runs while we'd scored eight. Me, a journeyman pitcher who'd spent most of his 17-year professional career kicking around the minor leagues, barely hanging on. Who the Yankees had called up as a last resort, after they'd exhausted all their other pitching options.

"Way to go, way to battle," manager Joe Torre said, when he got to the mound. He was smiling. Probably a little surprised. I handed him the ball and began to walk toward the dugout. The bullpen would take it from here.

The organist started playing "It's a Small World." The fans applause kept building. Think how close you came to missing this, I told myself, as players hugged me and clapped me on the back on the dugout step. You see, two months earlier, I had nearly quit the game.

Quitting. Growing up in California, the son of a minister, I had never allowed quitting to be a part of my vocabulary. I believed in myself—and in God's will for me.

When the Toronto Blue Jays drafted me in the 22nd round out of high school in 1989, I knew I wasn't star quality. I wasn't even good enough to get a scholarship at a four-year college or university. But playing big-league ball was my dream.

I was a skinny kid, six-foot-four and 165 pounds. One of the Toronto scouts told my dad they'd signed me as a projection pick—they figured I'd fill out and get stronger over the next few years.

They were right about my getting stronger. But I never developed the overpowering fastball they'd predicted. Six long years later I was still stuck in the minors.

In 1994, when I was 22 and entering what should have been my prime, the team sent me an unambiguous message. They shifted me from starting pitcher to middle reliever. A clear demotion. I called home. "What are you going to do?" my dad asked. "I'm going to make them notice me," I said. Nothing would deter my dream.

I prayed often that spring. Not for a bigger fastball or better control, but for the strength to persevere. The prayers helped. Well, maybe. One day in June, as I was getting dressed at my locker, my manager pulled me aside.

"The big club wants you," he said. "You're going to Toronto." I thought I'd shot the moon. But not every dream has a happy ending.

In fact, the Blue Jays were playing the Yankees that night. The Yanks knocked out Toronto's starter, and I got called in. You've waited your whole life for this, I thought, as I strode to the mound.

I took a deep breath and surveyed my fielders. I checked the runner on first. I threw my first big-league pitch. Strike. One pitch later I retired the batter on an infield grounder. Next up was star outfielder Paul O'Neill. I hung a slider out over the plate. Boom! He clobbered it over the right-field wall.

Somehow I finished the inning. It wasn't pretty—two runs on five hits and two walks. After the game, the manager called me into his office. "We're sending you back down," he said.

My career was like a yo-yo after that. I played for 13 teams in eight years before finally landing with Atlanta's minor-league Richmond, Virginia, club in 2002.