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NEWSPAPER
ARTICLES
by Kim Mulford, Courier Post staff
writer
July 30, 2006 edition of the South Jersey Guide Tom Gazaway has been in and out of prisons for the last
dozen years. Every time the 36-year-old Camden resident hears the doors
slam shut behind him, he knows freedom is on the other side. The guy is totally innocent though. In fact, inmates
call him a Saint. Most of them welcome him with warm smiles and open arms. The players deliver an entertaining game and a gospel
message. They play hard. When they win, which is often, they earn the
respect of inmates. Whether playing soccer, basketball, or softball (now in
season), The Saints have a higher purpose. Gazaway wishes the public could
see what he sees when he plays against a man who isn't going home after
the game.  "You can't relay (in a newspaper article) the warmth and the
look in somebody's eyes when you come in with no strings attached to do
something they don't get to do," said Gazaway, a mortgage lender. "You
can't really put it into words that level of appreciation from those
inmates, who kind of get a break from the monotony and routine of prison
life." The games began in 1987, when Dale Glading organized a
team of Christian athletes to play softball against a team of prisoners at
Bayside State Prison in Leesburg, Cumberland County. Since then, the
ministry has played before more than 160,000 inmates documenting more than
13,000 "professions of faith," or conversions to Christianity. The ministry added a branch in Colorado Springs two
years ago, and is working to add more around the country; the next likely
will be in Richmond, VA. The ministry also has a mailing list of more than
20,000 names at 450 prisons around the world. Each inmate gets a
hand-signed birthday card and the opportunity to sign up for a Bible study
program through the mail. There is also an after-care program, prayer for every
inmate who requests it and a pen pal program. Depending on the prison, the men play on converted cow
pastures or well-maintained ball fields, or in gymnasiums. Missionary athletes are in their 20's through their
40's, said Glading, but there is always a need for younger players. The
average inmate is 22, he said. "We're constantly looking for fresh blood," said
Glading, who still plays second base. "I'm 46. What career I've had I'm in
the twilight of it, for sure."  Still The Saints play hard sliding into bases, swinging for
the barbed-wire fences, racing for the hoop, the goal, the heart. Halfway through the game, The Saints stop to share
their personal testimony of faith. Roughly 80 percent of the spectators hang around to
hear their message. The players pass out tracts and blue cards for the
inmates to fill out and return with their personal information. They
listen to stories, more sad stories than you'd ever want to hear in a
lifetime. They pass out handshakes and smiles and bear hugs in abundance.
We don't look down our noses," said Glading. "A lot of
our guys had been incarcerated or should have been incarcerated. We're
sinners, sinners saved by grace. We don't judge anybody." There is work for just about any volunteer who wants
it. Linda Schoch, a Collingswood stay-at-home mom of three
kids, volunteers in The Saints home-office. She double checks every
inmates' mailing information before the birthday cards are mailed out. She
reads notes from prisoners, thanking the ministry for what might have been
the only piece of mail they received that year. She regularly corresponds
with a female pen pal who is in a California prison. The Saints go inside to turn lives around, she said. If
they can help a man stay on the right path when he gets out, that's good
for everyone. That's a huge effect on society," said Schoch. "That's
what The Saints are all about: to make them into people who are at peace
with walking with God. They want to do what the Bible says." Blake Frazier has been in and out of prison so many
times, he's lost count. Maybe 10, 15 times, he guesses. He's spent roughly
10 years behind bars. The longest term was 18 months. The last thing prison guards say to him when he is
released is, "We'll see you when you come back." Now at 43, with a wife, two children and two
grandchildren who call him "Pop-Pop," he is determined not to fall back
into his old lifestyle. Now living in Pennsauken, he has been out of
prison for six months, and his daily routine is much different, thanks to
the after-care program provided by The Saints. He prays in the morning, watches his two grandchildren
during the day, and attends a drug and alcohol treatment program in the
evenings, or Bible study or a prayer service. The Saints are working with
him to help him get job training, since he is permanently disabled because
of a car accident seven years ago. The ministry has given him food, clothing,
transportation and spiritual support. Frazier calls Minister Keith McCrea,
director of The Saints transitional services program, "the big, big
brother I never had." If it wasn't for The Saints, Frazier said, "I would
probably be living that same lifestyle I was, because there really isn't
much society has to offer to people coming out of prison today. If it
wasn't for programs like this, there would be a lot more people lost out
there, and a lot more crime." NAPANOCH, N.Y. -- The game started with a prayer. Right
after warm-ups, just before the inmates took the field, the visitors
gathered in a tight huddle. 
"We pray that we might reach these men tonight," manager and second baseman Dale Glading said. "Let's take care of business on the field so the Lord can take care of business off it." The team broke the huddle with a raucous cry of
"Jesus!" Glading threw down his glove, put on a batting helmet
and stepped into the batter's box of the well-groomed diamond in the main
yard at Ulster Correctional Facility, a medium-security state prison
located in upstate New York. The inmates were the home team. The visitors were
called the Saints. The contest was a game of softball. The real battle was
for souls. Glading's team was part of a ministry based in southern
New Jersey. The Saints have three softball teams and also play inmates in
basketball, soccer and volleyball. Their goal is simple: Use sports to
bring faith to felons. "Ball is our foot in the door," Glading said. "Eighty
percent of the prison population will not attend what they consider a
conventional religious program -- Bible study, chapel. What they will
attend is a sporting event." So the Saints play and preach. Doubleheaders, with
prayer sessions between games, are popular in softball. In basketball and
soccer, services are held at halftime. There are more than 2,400 prison ministries in the
United States, according to the Web site of International Network of
Prison Ministries. The Saints are among the busiest and most successful of
the ones that use sports. Since Glading founded the organization in 1987,
they have played in nearly 200 federal and state prisons in 17 states,
returning to many of those facilities year after year. Their inmate
mailing list has more than 21,000 names. The game in Ulster was the final of 49 games last
season for Glading's team. Up to then, 695 inmates had made what the
Saints call "decisions for Christ," a total the Saints were hoping to
pad. They had played a game earlier in the day at Wallkill,
another state prison 45 minutes away. The Saints won, 6-5, in a game that
was stopped after six innings because of time constraints. The Saints'
postgame prayer service was interrupted by a stern announcement on the
public-address system: "The yard is closed." Fall classic The Saints were more optimistic about Ulster. There
would be more time, and the nearly 900 inmates there usually turn out in
droves for softball. It was a beautiful autumn evening. The air was cool.
Gnats and mosquitoes were everywhere. Heavy rains had charged through the night before,
leaving the field unplayable at daybreak. But recreation supervisor Tom
Murray and an inmate grounds crew had worked on the dirt infield for four
hours, and it was smooth, dry and ready to go. Visits by teams such as the Saints are rare. Inmates
generally do whatever it takes to make sure the games are not canceled.
Outside teams, especially basketball teams, have been increasingly
reluctant to play inside prisons because of their fear of such diseases as
tuberculosis, hepatitis and AIDS. That doesn't stop the Saints, but players making their
first trips inside often are uneasy. "I definitely had some misgivings," said Don Conner,
stretching before the game. Conner was in his 11th year with the
Saints.
"There was some nervousness. I don't think I ever
worried about getting into any confrontations. I thought the inmates would
be well-behaved. I think it was the idea of going into an institution
where some of these guys have done some pretty cruel things, from murder
to rape to whatever. It was the discomfort of being with these kinds of
lowlifes," Conner said.
"And then he found out they're no different from us,"
Glading interjected. "They just made some bad mistakes."
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It's a theme sounded often by the Saints. The teams exchanged lineups. The Saints included
Glading, Conner, Nesbitt, Collins, Teisen. Ulster countered with Bones,
Outlaw, Crime, Fever, Green Eyes. Glading led off with a walk, Walter Nesbitt doubled,
Bud Collins scored Glading with a sacrifice fly, and the 6-5 Conner, a
power forward on the Saints' basketball team, hit a towering home run over
the leftfield fence that garnered applause even from the inmates. Conner, an elementary school teacher, homered again in
the third inning and in the fourth launched a titanic blast. There are two
fences at Ulster. The second is 20 feet high, not counting the coils of
barbed wire on top, and 296 feet down the leftfield line. Conner's drive
was to left-center and it disappeared into the lush forest on the other
side. The 150 or so inmate spectators screamed with delight.
Many raised fists in the air. They root for their team, but they also
appreciate skill, and they love -- absolutely love -- power. Conner was
their guy. The game was called after the Saints' lead grew to
24-7, and they promptly switched gears. They didn't want the crowd to
disperse. "If we lose , they're not going to stick around to hear
what we have to say," Glading said. "It's very important to be
competitive." Business cards Glading quickly set up a portable sound system. The
rest of the Saints circulated through the crowd, handing each inmate a
card that asked for his name, prison I.D. number and birth date. The card
also presented the inmate with three options from which to choose: He has
made a decision to accept Christ, he is uncertain but would like more
information, or he already has accepted Christ. Depending on his choice, the inmate will receive a
packet from the Saints. Some inmates get a Bible study correspondence
course, others more general information. Everyone will get a handwritten
birthday card every year for the rest of his sentence. For many inmates,
it's the only positive piece of mail they will receive, and it leaves a
lasting impression. It shows them the Saints aren't coming just to play a
game. "I am writing to say thank you for never giving up and
for always remembering my birthday," an inmate named Rickey recently wrote
to the Saints. Rickey filled out one of the Saints' cards more than 10
years ago at a softball game at Sing Sing, another upstate prison. Two years ago, the Saints began offering transition
services -- clothing, food, job training, help finding employment -- to
inmates being released. In the program's first year, 32 ex-inmates were
involved; only one returned to prison. As Ulster's inmates studied their cards, Hugh Dwyer
stepped to the microphone. The Saints' first baseman is assistant
executive director of a charter school in Trenton. The inmates cheered
when he said he was born in the Bronx and booed when he admitted to being
a Mets fan. Then Dwyer introduced Dan Owens, the youngish-looking
outfielder who had been selected to give testimony. Owens, who owns a painting business in Deptford, N.J.,
told the inmates of his blue-collar upbringing and said he wasted his
college years by drinking heavily. "If you don't know where you're going, I can tell you
where you're going," Owens concluded. "You're going to hell. And there's
no parole in hell." The inmates applauded, and Owens handed the microphone
to Collins. A middle school phys ed teacher in Pennsauken, N.J., Collins
looks like a ballplayer -- short, powerful, impressively muscled -- and he
carries himself with a certain swagger. That added to the impact when he told the inmates that
God was the only reason he was not in prison. "I've done drugs, I've got two DWIs, I'm a recovering
drug abuser and alcoholic," Collins said. "Just because we're outside
doesn't mean we don't sin." Collins told the inmates they were going to pray
together. Most took off their hats and dropped their heads. Several
clasped their hands as they would in church. Collins prayed that "the Lord
might bless these men that they come out and be changed men." "Amen," the inmates responded. Then the Saints moved through the crowd, collecting
cards and, in some cases, renewing acquaintances. A knot of four inmates
closed ranks and compared cards. They had arrived at Ulster only recently
and were not even sure of their prison I.D. numbers. But they wanted to
fill out the cards. "Check the first one, right?" one asked, and they all
agreed. "Anthony, God bless you, you made a big decision,"
Dwyer told him. Pay to pray As a group, the Saints are a bunch of born-again
Christians who love to play ball and found a way to combine those two
passions. They pay for that, literally. Each man had to come up with
$1,350 for the season's travel expenses, either from his own pocket or
through fund-raising. They often take time off from work to fit in games
and use vacation days for their multiple-prison crusades on the road. Most are in their 30s or 40s. Some, like Nesbitt, have
teenage sons. "They're talking about being part of the ministry.
Seeing their excitement gets me fired up," said Nesbitt, who works for a
heating and air conditioning company in Moorestown, N.J. "We're all trying to hang on until our kids get old
enough to play together one or two years, and then they can take over,"
said Glading, whose sons are 13 and 14. As meaningful as the games are for the inmates, they
have a powerful effect on the Saints, as well. One inmate player once asked outfielder Rob Brown for a
drink from the Saints' jug of Gatorade. "He said, 'What's that?' He hadn't had anything like
that for 20 years," Brown said. "These guys are shut off. How would I feel
being locked up for 20 years? We meet guys who are 40 or 50 years old and
their son is in there with them." The teams returned to Ulster's field and were about to
start the second game when the lights went out. "You trying to see if we can hit in the dark?" Conner
called out. "This is what I can't wait to tell my wife: That I was
in the yard in the dark," catcher Jeff Marthins said. Spectators and players from both teams hung around the
diamond until the P.A. announced the yard was closed and the game
canceled. The teams quickly shook hands, and the inmates were returning to
their housing units when the lights suddenly switched on. Instantly, a
roar erupted. The inmates rushed back to the diamond. In the first inning, Collins cleared both fences with a
monster shot even longer than Conner's blast. Immediately, inmates started
calling for an inspection of "the Sammy Sosa bat." "These balls are coming out of our commissary fund,"
the inmate umpire moaned. Green Eyes, meanwhile, had been catching with shin
guards and face mask but no chest protector. Murray said he had to fight
for that much because guards were concerned the gear could serve as armor
if they had to use their batons. So Marthins let Green Eyes borrow his
equipment. The inmate strapped on the newer gear and grinned. The Saints won again, 13-0, but they were more
interested in the count of the cards. Twenty-two decisions for Christ, 16
requests for more information, 18 already in the fold. Answered prayers? Players from both teams, joined by some fans, gathered
on the infield and made a circle, Saints between inmates and vice versa.
Heads down, arms crossed, they clasped hands with the men beside them. "We pray for the men here, that this has been a special
night for them," Dwyer said. "And we pray for those who accepted God and
for those who didn't." After each prayer, some of the inmates murmured,
"Amen." Then the circle tightened, everyone put a hand in the middle, one
on top of the next, and yelled, "Jesus!" Many of the inmates seemed moved by the show of
brotherhood, by the fact Dwyer prayed for them, by the evening in general.
They shared hugs with the Saints as each thanked the other for being
there. Then the inmates turned to go back inside the prison.
The Saints packed their equipment for the four-hour drive home. "Safe trip home, thanks for coming, guys," Murray
said. The night now was silent except for the clicking of
cleats on pavement. As the Saints walked slowly toward the front gates, it
was hard to tell whether they were exhausted, lost in thought, or
both. "It's all about them feeling like human beings," said
Dwyer, breaking the silence. "We hear so many times: 'This is the only
time here that I feel like a human being.' Take away the fences, take away
the walls, this could be any ballfield in America." But it was not. And every Saint knew that. There was one last prayer back at the van. Then they
unlaced their cleats, stowed the gear and pulled out of the parking lot at
10 p.m. They got home around 2 in the morning, another 18-hour day in a
never-ending quest. On that Saturday, the Saints played three games, posted
three wins and, they hoped, a lot more saves.
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