I’ve known him as long as I’ve known anyone in my life.  Almost thirty years.  We grew up in church together, and in our late teens, started hanging out and listening to heavy metal in his Dodge pick-up.  He would play it as loud as it would go (he was the kind of guy who jammed at a hundred decibels right up until he turned the truck off, so that the next time he got in – probably with a friend – ear-shredding metal would blast from his speakers as soon as the key was turned) and I would scream along till my head nearly exploded. 

Erin Woodfin Martin IV is a manic depressive ex-welder who can quote as much scripture from the King James Bible as most preachers.  He once left the entire story of The Rich Man and Lazarus on my answering machine.  Just from memory.  Just cuz he was thinking about it, probably.  Or he would leave a message that consisted of an entire Pink Floyd song, his voice wavering ridiculously in his attempt to have some control over it. 

As much as I could say about who Erin is, I find that the stories of his life provide a gamut of insights that one could never divulge with mere “exposition,” as I believe a few of the episodes to be beyond any explanation.  Thus, I give you (for starters), “The Fly Ball Incident.”

I played on a softball team with Erin, a few other friends, and some guys I didn’t know.  Obviously a ragtag bunch, and we weren’t that good.  I played third base, and Erin was in right field.  At some point during a night game, a guy on the other team hit a towering fly ball toward left center field (in this particular league, we had four outfielders).  From third base, I turned and saw that our left-centerfielder knew pretty much where the ball was coming down.  As he moved a few steps here and there for position, I realized to my sheer horror that Erin was sprinting with all his life toward the ball.  He moved with a smooth swiftness that was somehow as beautiful as it was absurd.  Meanwhile, our left-centerfielder was standing there all by himself, waiting for the ball to come down.  Imagine being that guy, being in the perfect position, focused up at the ball dropping toward you out of the night sky, and then hearing a two-hundred pound man huffing toward you with the strength of his very soul.  Somehow our outfielder stayed focused, but it didn’t matter; with the immaculate timing that happens once in life, Erin caught the ball at a dead sprint right at the glove of his teammate. 

I can’t remember what my physical response was.  My thoughts went (probably in this order), “What?!”

“Man, that was awesome.”

“Did that really just happen?” 

You have to understand, this is the same guy who (playing for the same team) stood one night and watched a fly ball go over his head and stop at the right field fence.  “Get the ball!” we cried.  The batter was rounding second, and they were already waving him home.  Erin jogged back to it with everybody yelling, “Go home!  Home!  Home!”  He picked it up, took one step, and from the fence in right field, threw the ball over the third base dugout. 

So while I can’t remember exactly how I reacted to one of the most amazing outs in the history of softball, I do clearly remember thinking as I watched him streak toward left-centerfield, “Man, what in the world are you doing?”