Los Angeles Angels hitter Garret Anderson, July 4, 2008. (AP Photo/Mark Avery)
Garret Anderson played 17 years in Major League Baseball — 15 with the California/Anaheim/Los Angeles Angels, one with the Atlanta Braves and one with the L.A. Dodgers. He was a three-time All-Star, two-time Silver Slugger, helped the Angels win the 2002 World Series, and is in the Angels Hall of Fame. He died one week ago at his home in Newport Beach, California.
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April 17th, 2026. It was just an ordinary, morning — one of those quiet pauses in the day when you scroll without thinking. And then the headline stopped me cold: “Garret Anderson, former World Series champion, Angels Hall of Famer, dies suddenly.”
I read it again. Slower this time. As if the second reading might change the outcome.
Another article confirmed it. Age 53. A wife. Three children. Fifty-three?! That’s not just young, that’s too soon. That’s kids who still need their dad. That’s a wife who expected more time. That’s a family whose world shifted in a single breath.
And in that moment, my heart didn’t just react to the news; I felt it. The weight of it. The finality of it. Because I knew him. Not just the name. Not just the stats. I knew the man. And suddenly my mind was no longer in the present — it was pulled back years earlier, to a conference in Anaheim, California.
It was November. So-Cal, palm trees, and a room filled with professional baseball players — men who had achieved what most only dream about. The event was hosted by Pro Athletes Outreach. This gathering was not about contracts or performance, but about something deeper. This was eternal. I had been invited to speak at a luncheon during the conference. Just men in the room. Just hearts — and truth.
I remember standing there, looking out over that crowd, sensing something I can’t manufacture: God was moving. You could feel it. A quiet stirring. Walls beginning to crack. I shared the Gospel. As clearly, simply, boldly as I knew how. Not religion. Not performance. Not “try harder.”
Just Jesus.
His grace. His sacrifice. His invitation. And then I closed in prayer. No music. No manipulating. Just a moment between God and each man in that room.
When it ended, guys slowly began to stand, talk, move around. But one man made his way directly toward me. It was Garret. Calm. Thoughtful. There was a seriousness in his eyes. Settled. He looked at me and said something I’ll never forget: “I just prayed to receive Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior.”
Here stood a man who had reached the pinnacle of success in his profession. A World Series champion. Respected. Accomplished. And yet in that moment, none of that mattered. Because he recognized something far greater — his need for a Savior.
I remember feeling this deep, overwhelming joy. Not excitement like you’d feel for a game-winning home run, but something eternal. Something sacred. A soul was stepping out of darkness and into light.
After we wrapped up the luncheon, I had this thought: This didn’t start today.
I began to wonder: Who had been praying for Garret? Was it a teammate who lived out his faith in the clubhouse? A friend who kept inviting him to something like this? A grandmother, maybe, praying faithfully for years, never seeing the outcome? How many conversations had led to this one? How many seeds had been planted long before I ever stepped on that stage?
Maybe the PAO staff had prayed over every single name attending that conference … asking God to move … asking God to draw hearts. And God answered. Not just through one moment, but through a thousand unseen ones.
And I realized something that has stayed with me ever since: God simply allowed me to play a very small part. Just a moment. Just a voice in a long chain of voices.
I am more than OK with that. I don’t need to be the story; I’m grateful to be a sentence. Because that’s how God works. He weaves together people, prayers, conversations, timing … all for His purposes.
Garret and I crossed paths many times after that. Bible studies. Conversations. Fellowship. He even played one season in Atlanta while I was serving as team chaplain. Those moments were always real. Genuine. Brother to brother. And that is who he became to me. Not just a ballplayer. A brother in Christ. A humble man of God.
And now, he is with the Lord. No more headlines. No more statistics. Just eternity.
While there’s peace in knowing where he is, there’s still a deep ache for those he left behind. Teresa. Brianne. Bailey. Trey. A family now walking through grief that words can’t fix. So today, I pray for them. For strength when the silence feels too loud. For peace when the questions don’t have answers. For the presence of God to meet them in the middle of their pain.
And I’m reminded again: Life is fragile. Moments matter. And sometimes, the role we’re called to play is simply to be faithful in the small part we’ve been given. Because you never know, that small part might be part of a much bigger story God is writing.
***
Tim Cash is the lead pastor at The Cross Loganville near Atlanta. He served in chapel ministry with the Atlanta Braves from 1995 through 2010, and is still involved with players today.
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