"Baseball?" I asked. "As in machine-pitch?"
For once, over the stretch of the 10 years I had been a mother, I was at a loss of what to do about a sport. Up until this point, all of my kids had generally liked all the activities they requested to sign up for, and for the most part, were good at them. But, you see, #2 neither liked baseball, nor was he good at it. In fact, aside from a few seasons picking clovers and playing in the sand at t-ball games, he had never showed any interest at all.
So I admit, I was skeptical about signing him up. My 2nd child is--to put it lightly--the least athletically inclined of the whole clan. While my husband spent hours in the backyard playing baseball with #1 and #3, #2 was much happier digging in the dirt, planting dandelion gardens, and building mud castles. If asked to play--or to do anything that involved a ball, for that matter--he'd simply shrug, shake his head, and go on preparing his mud soup in a bucket. He always had a strong sense of individualism...he knew he was, and we love that about him.
So now, out of the blue, I wondered, why did this kiddo suddenly want to play baseball?
With four kids under my belt, I am no rookie to this sport. I am very much aware of the difference between t-ball and machine pitch leagues, and was afraid he did not understand what he was in for. For those who haven't witnessed it first hand, I would describe it as this odd, magical transition that takes place sometime after those tiny players toddle away on their last day t-ball...only to return that following year for machine-pitch as full-blown baseball players. I could swear some of them come back with facial hair and deep voices. All I could picture was my little 7 year old, who has never so much as caught a ball in our backyard--let alone play a real game of baseball--standing in the grass, with his knees knocking, glove in hand, with a beast of a man-child kid chucking a ball straight at his forehead.
I shuddered to think about it. Naturally, as his mother, I wanted to protect him... From failure, from ridicule, from all that could hurt his little soul I had desperately tried to preserve since the moment I had first held him.
So this is the mental state in which I found myself, quite reluctantly sitting out on the sidelines on that first day of his practice, filled with nerves and apprehension only a mother can feel. That deep down, aching dread that precedes after you allow someone you love so much to do something you know could very well break him. It was that vulnerable feeling as though my own beating heart had simply climbed right out of my chest, and walked out onto the fresh-cut turf that day with a baseball glove in hand.
I braced myself. They were going to eat him for breakfast out there.
Low and behold, all my worst fears came true. He flinched and turned away whenever the ball was thrown to him. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, a ball came sailing straight at him and popped him in the nose. As he bravely wiped back the tears, and--with dried blood still caked to his nose, headed to home plate with the bat in hand--my heart began to beat wildly. His first 3 strikes flew by like a G6. Had he even had a chance to swing? "You're out!" pierced what was left of my heart like an arrow.
What had we gotten ourselves into?
"Hey! Good practice!" I exclaimed when he was done (a little too enthusiastically). "What do you say you practice with dad a little when we get home?"
"Nah, that's OK, Mom, I've already practiced," He said with a big smile on his face.
Oh dear.
The weeks went by, and my nerves continued to fry like bacon in a pan at every practice. I dreaded those practices more than anything, but no matter how poorly it seemed to go, that smile never seemed to leave his face.
Somewhere around week four, he actually started catching some of the balls. The coach had taken him aside to practice this batting, and although he had yet to hit a ball, his swing was no longer aiming towards the ground.
And then, one night, this happened.
"Dad, can we go out and play catch?" he eagerly asked after practice one day. We both exchanged surprised glances. This became a nightly ritual with those two, and often times I would watch them through the window, in awe of the stick-to-itiveness of my son and the unwavering patience of my husband. A bond was striking between them that up until this point, I realized, had been somewhat lacking.
Opening Game came and went, and while he struck out every time, that smile remained throughout, relaxing what was left of my frazzled nerves and warming my heart. My child was truly enjoying this. And the kiddo was showing progress. In some ways, I too, was showing progress on my own outlook on the world. It was his awe-inspiring smile--no matter how badly it went out on that field--that stirred inspiration deep-down in my soul. It forced me to reluctantly analyze myself. Had I ever tried something new, knowing I was not good at it? Put myself out there, even if I were potentially setting myself up for failure? Were my fears holding me back from experiences in my own life?
A lot of people ask me why my kids play so many sports, why we do so many activities all the time.
Why do all of this? Well, I can certainly tell you reasons that are not why my kids play sports.
They do not play sports to win every game, or any for that matter.
Not to gain recognition, or get scouted for middle school and high school teams (it’s happening already, believe me!)
Not to keep busy or to be used a form of babysitting.
Not so we, the parents, can make sure they get all the best positions, get all their rightful playing time, and to argue with coaches until this happens.
Not with hopes that they will make it to the pros one day.
No, I realized, as I sat down to watch my son's second game of the season last week. It is not for any of these reasons my kids play sports. So why do I put myself through all of this? Why put up with the rushing around and packing of equipment every day, the often monotonous moments sitting through practices day after day? Why subject myself to that sheer anxiety of being on the sidelines, at times watching them fail, knowing I cannot jump in and save them? Why do any of it?
Why do my kids do so many sports and activities, you ask? Well, for starters...
For that look of pure joy and accomplishment on my child's face as he crosses the finish line in a race he almost stopped in half a mile back, but kept going.
For the first time my child swims all the way across the pool, or jumps off the diving board. For the smile he has coming out of the water.
For that moment my child looses a wrestling match in the third round by one point, but still manages to stand tall, choke back his tears, and shake the hand of his opponent.
For those secret times during the day I pause by my son's door to hear him strumming a song on his guitar--not because I am making him practice for his lessons--but because he truly loves the music with all his heart and soul.
For that moment in jujitsu, when my child volunteers to demonstrate a move to the class, only to get it completely wrong, but is congratulated by his sensei for his bravery for getting up and trying when no one else would.
For the look of pride on my child's face after he performs a solo piece in front of an audience and nails it. Only I know he was so nervous beforehand he almost threw up.
For that moment my child's name is called over the loudspeaker at a wrestling match for first place, and my heart skips a beat.
And....on that lovely spring day at the second game of his season...
For the beautiful, unmistakable sound of a bat cracking against the ball, and the crowd cheering. For that clean line past second, and the dash of a little boy running to first base. For the umpire yelling "Safe!" and the jack-o-lantern smile of a boy, scanning the bleachers with his eyes to find his mom, who gives him the thumbs up.
My son had his first hit of the season that day.
And that in itself makes all of this worthwhile.
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