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Joy in Mudville By Trish Woolwine Email: trishwoolwine at comcast dot net (above email address formatted to reduce spam) April 03, 2008 A moment to savor. My little boy proudly holding the game ball at the last baseball game of the season. A great time in a boy's life. A hard won fight. No one was more surprised than I (well except maybe my husband) when my eight-year old son announced that he wanted to play baseball. My husband, who has never been athletic, was dead set against it. "He isn't coordinated enough to play baseball," he reasoned. "The other players will kill him. Some of these kids have been playing since they were two!" "We have to let him try," I countered. "You never know, this could be his big sport. He might really be good at it. And, besides, he wants to try and I don't think we should discourage him." So we signed him up, and he got his minature New York Yankee uniform, with the numbered shirt and short white pants; and we bought the cleats. Then we practiced. First we tried slow pitching the ball to him and he swung faithfully away. Nothing. No crack of the bat, no bunt, no "getting a piece of it". He just couldn't seem to connect. So my husband bought a device called a "hitting stick". This consisted of a long rubbery pole with a round ball-shaped knob on the end, that my husband would hold out and my son would try to hit. My husband would grip the stick and move it slowly toward my son's bat until he would make contact, and then do it again, faster. Sometimes the bat touched the end of the stick, but most of the time my son just flailed away and missed. Every afternoon we practiced. When my son came home from school, my husband would announce, "Go get the hitting stick," to my son and they would go into the backyard. One day my husband was in the back yard and yelled, "Time to get the hitting stick!" I noticed the next door neighbor looking over the fence with a very concerned look. I ran over to explain, but she had already gone in the house. We tried to think of reasons why, besides the apparent lack of athletic talent in his family, that our son could not hit the ball. "Maybe it's his glasses," my husband considered, "He just can't see the ball." "He just needs more practice," I decided. "Anyone can learn to do anything if they just keep practicing." Finally the day came for my son's first game. We took lawn chairs and blankets and went out to the ball park with lots of anticipation. My son was spic and span in his new uniform and ready to play. His first turn up to bat, "Strike one, Strike two, Strike THREE, YOU'RE OUT!" The umpire yelled as he threw his thumb in the air. My son dazedly walked back to the dugout. "That's okay." "You'll do better next time." "Good Try". The boys were all very encouraging. Then my son was up again. One, two, three...Out. And so our games went on. We kept practicing with the "hitting stick" and slow pitch. Twice a week we went to the field to watch our son strike out. The season was interminable. At one point, I even suggested that we let him quit. My husband actually said that was not a bad idea. We figured we could stop the humiliation he must be going through. Then when my son told one of the other dads that maybe he should quit, the hale and hearty guy said, "No son, you shouldn't give up! You need to always finish what you start and not let the team down!" We were so ashamed of ourselves. Finally and mercifully it was the last game of the season. "Mommy?" My little boys said on the way to the field, "Do I have to go? Jason says I'm the worst player he's ever seen." "Yes,Honey," I said, torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch "Jason". "But, look, you did your best and you need to be proud of that. Go out there today and just have fun. Don't worry about what anyone says, okay?" "Okay", he said, but he didn't sound very convinced. It had rained that morning and the baseballs were sodden and the pitches were slow. No one on the team was doing very well. My son came up to bat and, of course, struck out again. No one seemed to notice. Then in the bottom of the seventh inning, the score was tied. Our team needed one more run to win. The bases were loaded, and whose turn was it to bat? A loud collective groan came up as my little boy walked up to the plate with shaky feet. He tapped the end of the bat against the plate and then held it up in position to swing. Whoosh! He swung as the leaden ball thudded across the plate. "Strike one", the umpire called. Whoosh! He swung hard and way too high...thud. "Strike two!" I had my head down pretending to look through my purse when I heard the next sound. "CARRRACK!" "My God," I thought looking up, "Could that be lightning?" No! It was the sound of ball and bat making contact! My son stood at the plate, a confused and rather frightened look on his face. "Run!" I heard a shriek and realized it was my own voice as I jumped to my feet. "Run!" The rest of the team was screaming on their feet as well. "Run!" And cheers as all the other parents jumped to their feet. My son dropped the bat and took off for first base with all he had. "Foul Ball," said the umpire. Of course, when he came back to the plate he struck out again, but it didn't matter. As he put the bat down and headed back to the dugout, the boys gave him a standing ovation. Even the parents all stood up and cheered as he sheepishly looked up from behind his glasses and gave the team a thumbs up. About the author: Whenever I see the "boys of Spring" start up at the local parks around my neighborhood, I remember the Spring we found out what true courage is. My son is 17 now and looking at colleges. | | | |
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