My journey in parenthood most recently segued into the world of baseball. Tee-ball to be exact. I’ve had several years of ballet shoes and leotards and pink tights and am well versed in most things female thanks to my girls, but this is my first experience in the world of organized (albeit loosely with this age) sports. My four-year old (baby) boy officially was a member of his inaugural tee-ball team and I couldn’t have been more excited. Or maybe his Daddy couldn’t have been more excited… But don’t worry, he was pretty pumped too.
There is much to learn, friends. And this isn’t just referring to what the mini athletes on the field need to learn about the game of baseball (although that sort of goes without saying). Seeing these ball capped babes running around after the ball and wildly throwing it in or hoarding it in the outfield or smacking it off the tee and running wildly up the third base line…seeing all of that can seem like the most organized form of chaos one’s privy to witness. It’s sheerly delightful watching these loves try their best to listen to their coaches and their mama or daddy or grandpa or uncle or preacher yelling direction at what to do next when the ball happens to come in to their possession or if a base looks like it can be commandeered. It takes a village to coach a kid–much to the chagrin of the actual coaching squad themselves.
But the ones who have even more to learn might just perhaps be those outside of the fence — the spectators that have their hearts running around on the field, numbered so it’s easy to identify theirs from the cheapest of seats, and labeled to identify to whom that heart belongs. I’m talking about people like me.
As we headed to “try-out” for tee-ball registration this year, my baby’s Daddy had ensured that our prospect had all the gear he needed:
bat – check
glove – check
hat – check
big league chew – check
mama’s lipstick on his cheek – check (well, that wasn’t on the list but it was necessary)
Yet there was one thing that on the list he couldn’t tangibly provide: confidence. Watching our boy walk out across the huge ball field that made him look so small again to me, all by his lonesome as they called his name, and I had a flash forward moment that made me catch my breath in a base-ball sized knot in my throat that probably outwardly resembled an Adam’s apple. My boy. My baby boy. When did he get old enough to be big enough to do this?? As Alan stood beside me, I watched as W’s eyes met his Daddy’s. That look. Those steely blue eyes locked on Alan’s–his Daddy was his source of strength, his confidence hinging on what his father had instilled in him thus far in his 4 years on earth. And those eyes searched his Daddy’s face and asked a million questions in a single stare, but mostly–are you watching me Daddy? — and this mama’s heart…oh my heart…
But they say there’s no crying in baseball.
Fast forward a few practices and a game or two into the season. I find myself the newly minted (unqualified) “book-keeper” and this makes me LOLsers (Laugh Out Loud-sers…I’m using text speak to be up on my “hip” game). Me?? I mean, I’ve got neat handwriting and an impeccable sense of organization and a mostly can-do attitude about things and I’ve always thought baseball uniforms were awfully cute (your turn for LOLsers). But…me?? So, when the score book gets passed my way because the mom that normally keeps the books isn’t able, I quickly YouTube “how to scorekeep in tee-ball” on my phone and it’s more info than I want to know. People are kind of nuts-o on this subject. I mean, hats off to you who take the actual time to record a video tutorial of this caliber–a little weird–but I needed it. So while watching how to record game data, the game is actually going on live in front of me. A few “whoop-whoops” and “good hit” jolt me to attention and I realize that I have to do something with that spiral bound book and dull point pencil. The Blue (that’s the referee, y’all) walks over to me and wants to fact check stats before proceeding.
“How many outs you got?” he implores.
“Ugh, um…” oh snap, I’m not even past the YouTube ad for Under Armour, how do I know this???
“You got top of the second?” questions Blue.
“Hang on, I’m looking… (at my instructional video). Um, yessir. And no outs. (because what even is an out in a tee-ball game? they are few and far between). Score is 8 to 5.”
The ump walks off and the opposing coach kind of cock eyes me like I’m cheating. On the score book. In tee-ball. Simmer down, Coach. But while I’ve got your attention, have we considered getting Under Armour jerseys next year? Just saying. They’re kind of cute…
But there’s no crying (from laughing inside so hard) in baseball.
Fast forward a few more games into the season. As the players are looking more “legit” with red clay stained pants and salt stained sweat marks on ball caps, our kids’ skills are ramping up too. They are hitting balls not just off the tee, but actually off pitches to them, and some of these children are showing true promise. Some so much so that parents are hoping for little blossoming Buster Poseys (we’re from Albany, y’all. Just like our little footballers are the next Ricardo Lockettes and our aspiring singers are the next Phillip Phillips or Luke Bryans…we’ve got big shoes to fill) and act accordingly…yelling tidbits of coaching from the stands. “Hit it straight down the third base line and run through the base! Keep your foot on the bag! Play’s at second, y’all! Don’t cut at that pitch–you ain’t golfin’!” One of our fellas gets up to bat and knocks the stitches off the ball, right into an opposing player’s noggin. Hard. Bless the baby, he had his glove ready but the ball didn’t cooperate. A collective gasp from all of the mamas in the stand and a bum rush of coaches to the victim, and you can see the tears quietly streaming down the babe’s face. It hurt. It was scary. And this boy was trying to be so big and so strong and so tough when his Daddy ran to check on him, but he purely crumpled in his father’s safe, strong arms’ embrace. There wasn’t a dry eye on the field (ok, I’m being dramatic) but my eyes weren’t dry watching this–seeing a tough guy being tender with his child…that baby feeling secure because his Daddy was there…it’s ok to be gentle, men.
Oh, there is crying in baseball.
Now I know I still have much to learn– about baseball and bookkeeping and stain removal from white ball pants and just life all the way around. I don’t pretend to even think I’ve got any of it figured out. But I do know as the baseball season came to a close with high fives of “goodgamegoodgamegoodgame” and after game snacks (the important things, according to W) a few days ago, the realizations that time waits for no one and these days right here –these ARE the days– came to roost on me. This time where the kids are happy mostly, where coaches are pouring into these tiny ball players with their love and time and teaching of lessons on the field (that unbeknownst to them will one day translate off the field), where winning and losing aren’t the most important things (I’m not bitter because we only won two games. I’m not), where a Capri Sun and a bag of Cheetos make all the problems in the world forgotten–even losses, where it’s still okay to cry a little bit and have your Daddy or your Mommy scoop you up and forget why you were even sad–this is the time of our lives.
I already can’t wait for baseball season next year– I’ve got Oxi-Clean and Big League Chew at the ready, my pencils sharpened, YouTube videos on scorekeeping in my que, and am stockpiling Kleenex.
Because y’all know what? “They” don’t know.
There sometimes absolutely is crying in baseball.
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