Someone asked this week what my first job was. Since I’ve had several that might have counted as “firsts,” I had to choose one. My first job out of college was as a junior copywriter at an advertising agency. My first job in college was as a television news reporter at a university-owned station. My first part time job in high school was as a checker at a neighborhood drugstore – back when you (and not a machine) had to know how to make change!

But the first job I was ever paid for, I got when I was 13: keeping score at little league baseball games, for $5 a game.

The games never went more than six innings, and were sometimes called sooner because of time. The equipment was simple: a brown, spiral-bound scorekeeper’s book, a sharp pencil and a lawn chair. (Scorekeepers got a free sno-cone at the concession stand after their games were done.)

On a good Saturday, you could make $15. The hazards were minimal: a stray foul pop over the backstop to dodge, or the occasional grousing parent who wanted to argue the hit or error you might have just scored on their young boy-wonder. My little league experience led to a four-year gig as scorekeeper for my high school’s varsity baseball team, where the games were longer, the stakes were higher, and they hit and threw a lot harder.

To this day, it’s almost impossible for me to watch a baseball game (little league, high school, college or pro) without keeping score. And it bugs me when I miss a pitch or a substitution, or pick up the next inning with the wrong batter.

I think I might be a closet legalist.

I want my record to be the last word on who’s who and what’s what. I want to fill in the book on every contest. I want to hold in my lap the undisputed truth, and to know with finality who’s won.

Only, it doesn’t always work like that in this life, does it? And although little league scorekeeping made me happy, I’ve found that real-life scorekeeping is a quick road to misery.

I’m not the one keeping the life-book. But it is being kept. And there are no mistakes in it. None at all.

My own errors (and there have been plenty) are recorded, and I will be able to see each one. But they have not been charged to me in the final tally. I don’t know the divine shorthand – but I’m picturing a little “g” with a circle around it. In His book, it will stand for grace.

How blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered! How blessed is the man to whom the LORD does not impute iniquity, and in whose spirit there is no deceit. (Psalm 32:1-2, NASB)

© Leigh McLeroy 2004