The military veterans line up along the third base line, maybe 30 or so deep. Some are with their families. Some are pushed along in wheelchairs. Some are fathers with little ones in tow. They acknowledge the cheers from the crowd, framing a patriotic snapshot of a sunny Memorial Day afternoon.
Tim Tebow watches the ceremonies and takes a few steps to the top of the home team's dugout. He has a handshake and a smile ready for every veteran and family member as they pass by.
A gentleman wearing a baseball cap that marks him as a World War II veteran. The man who tells Tebow that he once served at a base in the Philippines, where Tebow was born. The reluctant toddler in a New York Mets uniform who seems more interested in throwing a baseball back to Tebow's teammates in the dugout.
Everybody gets a picture or a selfie with Tebow, along with a "thank you" for their service.
It's the small gestures that end up becoming big parts of the enigma that is Timothy Richard Tebow, a talented and charismatic athlete who is popular yet polarizing, loved yet loathed, marvelous yet marginalized.
The narrative of his sports resume gets complicated quickly.
Fact: Tebow won two national championships and the Heisman Trophy while playing college football for Florida Gators, and he was taken 25th overall in the 2010 NFL draft.
Polarizing: Was he an always flawed quarterback who was dumped by four NFL teams and never really belonged in the league? Or was he a winner who delivered a division championship and a playoff victory in his rookie season but never got the chance keep proving why he deserved to be an NFL quarterback?
That was then, and this is now: Different sport, same arguments.
Is Tebow a former high school baseball all-star who only needs a few more at-bats with the Class A Columbia Fireflies to get back into the swing of things and launch his major-league career? Or is he is just a marketing tool of the New York Mets organization, who signed him to a 1-year deal for the pop he makes in ticket and T-shirt sales, and not for the pop in his bat?
Let the debate continue.
Perhaps the day will come when a truce is called and everyone stops judging Tebow only by traditional statistics. It just gets in the way. He is like no other athlete on the planet. He is loved unconditionally throughout these parts and everywhere else.
He's a guy who steps up to the plate and hits a home run every time, like he did for all those veterans and all those fans who lined the left-field corner stands wanting to take home a little piece of him _ an autograph, a handshake, a selfie, a signature on the sleeve of a T-shirt.
They don't judge him by his strikeouts, errors, incomplete passes or interceptions. His fans look past all of that and fall in love with him over and over.
Everybody loves Tim Tebow because he is Tim Tebow.
"There's nothing to hate about Tim Tebow," said Logan Todd, a University of South Carolina student at Monday's game. "He is not the greatest baseball player but he's the most genuine baseball player you'll every meet."
We've been through this ying and yang before, of course. Tebow was on four NFL teams in a five-year span, but only played in 25 games. He endeared himself forevermore to his fans in 2011, when he helped push the Denver Broncos to a playoff spot and that first-round victory against the Pittsburgh Steelers.
But his NFL career was mostly toast after that. He would throw only eight more regular-season passes with the Jets before subsequent cameos and cuts from the Patriots and Eagles.
That leads us here to Columbia, S.C. Tebow is up for another at-bat at professional sports glory. He signed with the Mets in September 2016 and was assigned to their minor-league Fireflies. And predictably so for a guy who hadn't played the game since high school, his on-field results haven't been very impressive.
Tebow's presence on the diamond has evoked cheers from his loyal followers and jeers from those who considered it nothing more than a marketing ploy.
Both sides can claim victory.
Through his first 44 games, Tebow, an outfielder, is hitting .225, with three home runs and a hefty 48 strikeouts. In the Memorial Day game, he was called out on strikes and also crashed into the second baseman on a routine pop up. Tebow drilled the guy instead of backing off, the ball fell to the ground, and he was charged with an error.
But, oh, the other stuff.
Attendance at Fireflies home games is up nearly 40 percent, according to Baseball America. Attendance for the team's road games in the South Atlantic League is up between 80 and 120 percent. And using April's metrics, Tebow has boosted sales for road stadiums by an estimated $44,200 per night.
His recently-released Topps Pro Debut card sells for $199.99 on eBay.
The analytics say that Tebow is second only to Tiger Woods over the past 20 years when measuring the appeal of an athlete based on clicks, online page views and overall video content.
Tebow is a great teammate, but he's also a bit of an alien presence here given all the quirky dynamics. At 29, he's much older than anyone else on the roster. He has his own security guy assigned to him, watching his back as he interacts with fans. A 20-something kid monitors the clubhouse and anyone not cleared through proper channels is denied access to Tebow.
A recent Chiplote run turned into a game of hide-and-seek, as teammates tried to provide Tebow cover while everybody ordered some food. Tebow wants to be like one of the guys. Yet, Tebow is not just one of the guys.
"I think I do enjoy every step of the way," Tebow recently told the Lexington Herald-Leader during a road game in Kentucky. "You'll get so many questions about the bus rides and everything ... It's not that much of a grind, you know, compared to what a lot of people around the world are having to deal with."
And there it is. The human connection.
Tebow's fans see a great person. They respect a man who embraces his Christian faith. They admire him for creating one of the most inspiring events of every year, the "Night to Shine" proms for kids with disabilities.
"Oh, yes, he's such a faithful Godly person," said Katy Edge. "He's awesome."
Katy and her mother Angie — Florida Gators fans — made a three-hour drive from East Dublin, Ga., to Columbia for a shot at meeting Tebow and having him sign a Denver Broncos jersey.
"We did it for Tim; 100 percent," said Angie. "He's my role model."
After he is through with batting practice, Tebow starts a methodical walk along the lower stands on the home team dugout side to greet his fans, including Katy and Angie. The line is long, maybe 50 or so folks, but not nearly as long for a recent Sunday meet-and-greet when the line stretched at least 50 yards long.
"It doesn't stop," said Diane Akien, an usher at the Fireflies' stadium. "Last week he came out of the dugout and they hadn't opened the gates yet to let the fans in. And the look on his face ... It was like 'aww!' "
Tebow gets that a lot, too. He signs, poses and makes small talk with just about everybody. Then it is Katy's turn. He signs her Broncos jersey on one of the sleeves.
And there it is. A Tebow Moment of Zen.
The beauty of Tim Tebow is what he does outside the scope of football and baseball fields. No one measures him by interceptions and strikeouts, or whether he will ever rise above Class A baseball.
The average fan does not care that Tebow is hitting .225. The media wouldn't come to Columbia, S.C. to talk to a guy who has very little chance of ever playing at a big league level. They care because it is Tebow.
His critics are the ones who are whiffing when it comes to the big picture.
Everybody loves Tim Tebow because he is Tim Tebow.
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