Out of His Slump

By Terry Pendleton, Duluth, Georgia

As appeared in

I was in the longest batting slump of my major-league career. It was 1990, and instead of playing third base for the St. Louis Cardinals, I was sitting on the bench.

Worse, it was the last year of my contract. Just the season before, I'd had one of my best years, slugging a career-high 13 homers and winning my second Gold Glove. But I knew the Cardinals wouldn't pick up my option. And who else would want me, playing the way I was?

When you're in a slump, it's almost impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Nothing goes right. Maybe the best way to describe it is to explain what it's like when you're not in one.

The opposite of a slump is a groove. When you're in a groove, everything clicks. Life is a joy. Even with the ball coming toward the plate at 90 mph, it looks twice its normal size, as big as a grapefruit, and you "lock in." Time seems to slow. Your swing is practically automatic and nearly perfect. The feel of the bat making solid contact is just about the sweetest thing I know.

Even when you don't get good wood on the ball, it goes "where they ain't," as Willie Keeler used to say. Everything works. Your reflexes are electric. Even your fielding is sharpened.

When you're mired in a slump, though, the ball looks like a BB coming in. You're always off-balance and fooled by the pitch. You start guessing wrong: This guy's thrown me three straight sliders. I'm going to sit on his fastball. He's got to come in with it sometime. You stand with the bat on your shoulder as the pitcher drops another breaking ball through the strike zone, something he wouldn't dare risk if you were in a groove.

One afternoon when the first hint of autumn teased the crisp air at Busch Stadium, I slouched in front of my locker after having checked the day's lineup card. Again my name wasn't penciled in. I didn't feel like taking batting practice.

Dejected, I was bouncing my bat on the carpet when my teammate Rod Booker sat down next to me. Rod's a friend. We came up through the minor leagues together, and we were both members of the Cards' Bible study and Baseball Chapel groups.

"Terry," he said, "you can't let this beat you down."

I respected Rod. He too had been having problems. A torn-up knee had hampered him all year, and manager Joe Torre was talking about sending Rod back to Triple A ball for rehab. Even riding the bench in the majors is better than going back to the minors. Yet Rob was serene, confident. He didn't let it get to him.

"Remember Arkansas back in '83," he said, "when you fractured your wrist and they moved me over to third?"

"I'll never forget it," I said with a rueful laugh. It had been the low point of my career, till now. Yet I came back and played in the Texas League All-Star Game that year, and Rod went back to shortstop where he belonged.

"Terry, God is in charge. I know it's not always easy to see. All he asks of us is to trust him."

I'd been trying to convince myself of that, to put my faith to work. But my wife, Catherine, was expecting our first baby, and I was worried about our future. "Maybe this isn't a slump, Catherine," I said one night. "Maybe I'm finished." She ran her fingers through my hair and told me that things would get better.

It was hard to believe. I'd prayed for God's help in enduring the slump. Still, I felt abandoned. I rested my hand lightly on her belly. The baby was due, and the way it was kicking it seemed as if it could be any minute. Catherine placed her hand over mine and squeezed gently.

"All I want," I said, "is to get a chance to play every day. If I play every day, I'll get straightened out."