It was a Saturday from heaven.
The Younger Sister and the Brother had stayed up late on Friday night watching movies so they slept late, which meant I got to sleep late. The Oldest Sister was gone on a weekend trip with our church youth group and though we missed her, the house was quiet. Breakfast was Belgian waffles, sausage, and a tall glass of milk I’d put in the freezer about 15 minutes prior. The symphony in mouth was giving me a hint of how wonderful the day might be.
About noon the Brother and I headed down to the Rice University baseball field where we met Coach Hallmark for a batting and fielding lesson. With the Houston skyline for a backdrop I watched my son learn a four-seam throw and the fielder’s hop. We moved inside to the batting cage and for the next 45 minutes a spectacular coach connected with the Brother as they worked on batting basics.
His confidence increased as they worked on the fundamentals and you could see it on his face. He seemed to stand a little taller with every crack of the bat. His mouth took on that determined shape that borders on angry but his eyes were pure blue delight. But his joy was nothing compared to what he experienced later that day.
Like I said, it was a Saturday from heaven.
About 4pm we headed over to the Westbury Little League field for spring tryouts. It’s holy ground, a place where boys become men and men become boys again. The tryouts are the same every year, a liturgy performed by the kids, all in turn, for the royal priesthood of coaches. Catch three pop flies in left field, field three grounders at shortstop and throw to first, hit three pitches off of the pitching machine, and run the bases on the third pitch.
The fielding was first and the Brother completed each drill flawlessly. Next was hitting. He looked up at me in the bleachers and I cheered, yelling his name and giving him a big thumbs up. He stepped into the batter’s box and I could see his face no more. In the classic batter’s stance his lean body looked so much like a grown man that I had to blink to correct my brain’s obvious mistake.
He swung at the first pitch and missed. I now sat on my hands in the stands holding my breath and my tongue.
He connected on the second pitch and fouled it hard down the third base line.
He ripped it on the third pitch, sending the ball hard by second base and into the outfield. He ran hard around the bases, touching the inside of the bags with his right foot just-so. He had that same determined shape to his mouth and as he rounded third he looked up in the stands to find me. Our eyes met and I knew that he knew that I was proud. It would be easy to think of me as one of those baseball dads who are only proud when the son plays well, but read on.
When everything wrapped up he piled his gear in the car and hopped in the front seat beside me. He didn’t ask me what I thought about his tryout. He told me how he did. Not cocky, not arrogant, just plain and simple words. “I did really good on my batting.” Blue eyed delight.
I am proud because this boy gritted his teeth, dug in, and did something he’d been afraid to do during the last season. Most of all I am proud because he assessed himself, not looking to me or the coaches to tell him he was good. He looked inside and gave himself the grade. You see, this story isn’t about baseball; it’s about a nine year old learning to read his inner compass. Top that, Jack Sparrow!
Like I said, it was a Saturday from heaven.
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