- Courtesy of Nesbitt Family
By Stephen J. Nesbitt, Daily Sports Editor
Published April 21, 2013
The other day, my father, a French and Spanish teacher, looked down at his precise cursive scrawl, chuckled, and shook his head. His pen still hovered above a student’s paper, above his signature: Stephen J. Nesbitt.
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Except, he is Stephen M. Nesbitt.
He later admitted his gaffe and said it was a humiliating sign of being eclipsed by his children. I smiled. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
This was always Papa’s dream, this sportswriting.
A tall, lanky kid from Birmingham, Mich., he went to Michigan State to be a sports reporter. He had the know-how, he knew how to craft a story, and he certainly had the writing talent.
But there, in the shadows of Spartan Stadium, he reversed course. He’d say his motivation was ill-founded. He’d say he was in it for the wrong reasons. He’d say his pursuit was only of the opportunity to meet famous athletes and to tell their stories.
So, he left East Lansing, instead, with a French degree to become a teacher. He met Brenda Knopf, they married, and their adventure quickly took them far, far away from where either of them had imagined.
In 1984, with 1-year-old Stephanie in tow, my parents moved to France to become evangelical Christian missionaries. Daniel was born in 1987, followed two years later by David, followed two years later by Peter, who was followed seven minutes later by me.
In total, my parents would spend 13 years there in northern France, working tirelessly to spread a gospel of love and grace and truth as they raised a family thousands and thousands of miles away from Michigan, from their home.
Home for me was never Michigan, though. Home wasn’t anything like Michigan.
My home was in northern France, in the Somme region, where fields and grasslands were stitched together like a patchwork quilt, where memorials and cemeteries and craters were everyday reminders of the battles fought in those same fields during World War I.
Home was Lille, then Hargicourt, and then Épehy. Home was a red-brick farmhouse that somehow fit all of us and a golden retriever under the same roof; home was a wiffle-ball field, bomb casings and bayonets in the backyard, fool’s gold rocks in the driveway, and six acres of land littered with sheep, chickens and turkeys on the north end of town.
But that was simply the backdrop. The life of this story was in our home. There is nothing better than growing up in a house brimming with laughter and children.
But, in time, the novelty of a large family began to fade for some. After receiving some criticism from a number of financial supporters back in the United States, my parents dropped the official title of missionary soon after their 10th anniversary, and they severed all financial support.
Now, contrary to popular belief, being “professional Christians” in the first place doesn’t exactly align with a life of riches. Not at all, actually. Papa found work teaching English courses at the chamber of commerce in nearby St. Quentin, then he started working as a sporting-goods salesman.
Rachel was born in 1993, followed two years later by Elizabeth, followed two years later by Carol.
We lived meager paycheck to meager paycheck. We first drove a yellow Volkswagen van, then a small, grey sedan, then no car at all, and then my dad’s white sales truck. We faltered, but we never fell.
Mama, our rock, never left the table empty. When zucchini from our garden was all we had to eat, that’s what we ate. Zucchini bread for breakfast; zucchini and squash salad for lunch; zucchini pasta for dinner.
There wasn’t always much, but there was something on the table, and there was family around it. It was a happy and healthy and bustling home. What more could a kid ask for?
I learned faith. I learned work ethic. I learned sacrifice.
And I learned sports, of course.
Even in a land where soccer and soccer alone rules the sports world, Papa’s love for sports, especially for baseball, became his sons’ love.
Every night, we played wiffle ball in the backyard. Every Saturday during the baseball season, we’d drive an hour northeast, across the Belgian border, to the city of Mons and its sprawling NATO base — Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (S.H.A.P.E.) — for baseball. We played on the Belgian team against all the Americans since our dad wasn’t in the military.
And, at long last, Papa tried his hand again at sportswriting.