In Baseball Now, More Teams Pray Before They Play

Jon Moeller leads the Nationals' Baseball Chapel. (By Preston Keres -- The Washington Post)

At RFK Stadium, the Nationals pray in the video room, a white, cinderblock space tangled with wires and monitors. The ceiling is low, the air one puff short of stifling. The computer screen-saver features a rear view of a woman in red lace panties.

"If you know the Lord, you will go to heaven," Moeller's friend, a visiting chapel leader named Bud Smitley, told the men on a recent Sunday. "If you don't know the Lord, it could be the other way around. There's only two places: heaven and hell."

Johnson, 26, poked his tongue thoughtfully through his Bazooka bubble gum. Pitcher Gary Majewski, 25, took off his cap and hung his head. As Smitley talked about damnation, players and coaches listened in a scattered circle, on desktops, on chairs. Cepicky sat on the floor, his fists digging into the rug. He had recently been called up to the majors to play right field. This was the sweet spot that Cepicky had been swinging for all his life.

"Lord, we give You all the glory," Smitley prayed.

Afterward, in front of his locker, as Cepicky pulled on his pants, he tried to explain why he attended chapel. "You almost feel guilty for what God's given you," Cepicky, 26, said. He asks God to watch over the players. He pictures God hovering above them, along with his father. When Cepicky was 6 years old, his father died of cancer: "I leave him a ticket every day before the game."

Next to Cepicky, hunched in a chair, center fielder Church, 26, read his Baseball Chapel leaflet, excerpts from Luke. While Cepicky was feeling like a man on the rise, Church was slumping.

"I'm trying to find my groove," Church said without looking up. He had been in the batting cage during chapel time. "It's been a rough week. My swing is not good. You got the weight of the world on you. I don't think the fans realize -- this sport is built on failure."

"Failure" topped the list when the chapel leader asked utility infielder Jamey Carroll to rank his greatest fears. (No. 2 was "insignificant -- no major role"; No. 3 was "dying.") Carroll, 31, said the fear of failure was debilitating for players: "You're gripping the bat so hard, you paralyze yourself in front of 40,000 people."

In Detroit, Jeff Totten, the Detroit Tigers chapel leader, quotes a verse from 1 Peter to allay that fear. Totten, whose chapel participants are called "the God Squad," e-mails the verse to injured players: " 'Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you' -- that's one I've used quite a bit," Totten said.

Carroll, who keeps in his Bible an ivy leaf that he picked from the wall at Wrigley Field, said such verses help: "Forty thousand people are booing you 'cause you just struck out. But He's walking with you, no matter what. You're playing for one fan -- God."

It may be hard to imagine ballplayers as needy, with their seven-figure salaries, their status as American icons and their macho facade. But, Totten said, "We're there to help them forget about that role of being a hero, and meet their needs as human beings."

If God helps players cope with failure, He is also called upon for success. First base coach Don Buford closes his eyes during the national anthem and mumbles a quick, "Lord, help us to win."