How I Learned to Love Baseball

My 8-year-old son John’s favorite season has arrived. Some call it spring, John calls it baseball season. And while I’ve often cringed at the whole organized sports system, I’ll admit his baseball obsession has pulled me in.

Yet it didn’t start out that way. Last year, John decided to play baseball so he joined a Little League team. He had practices several times a week and games twice a week, which seemed excessive for a first-grader. Then he needed a new bat and a new glove. Every day, his pants came home grass-stained and his face dusty from the infield. The schedule on our fridge had dates all the way to June.

It seemed a bit much and I was less than enthusiastic. But his excitement was so high, I began to soften. Despite his inclination to be lazy, he worked hard at his baseball skills. Each afternoon, he’d wait on the front porch for my husband to come home, begging him to hurry and change so they could play catch. Every night, I delayed dinner so they could play “just a bit longer.”

Nevertheless, I couldn’t get angry. I’d watch from the dining room window as my husband and son threw the stitched ball back and forth. My son would chase after the balls he couldn’t catch. My husband would scoop up the ones John couldn’t throw far enough. All the while, they chatted. I don’t know about what, and I didn’t ask. There was something sacred between them during these baseball sessions. Even my 11-year-old daughter Emma seemed to understand. She stayed inside with me, not wanting to interrupt the magic of the spring evening. We’d listen to the gentle, rhythmic thwap sound the ball and leather glove make when they collide.

John’s team was awful. Some of his teammates grew discouraged and bored. Not John or my husband, who by this time had volunteered to be an assistant coach. Every inning, John ran as fast as he could to whatever position he had been assigned, smiling all the way. He chirped along with the “hey, batter, batter, batter” chatter. He chewed sunflower seeds in the dugout. The boys would throw their arms around each others’ necks as they left, telling each other they’d “get ‘em next time.”

These episodes were endearing, but my true conversion came halfway through the season.

It was a Friday night game, and a lengthy meeting at work caused me to arrive at the ballpark late. John had already been up to bat once. My husband informed me that John had hit the ball, but was thrown out on first base. I got to my seat in the stands moments before his second time at-bat. As John walked up to the plate, he scanned the crowd looking for his mom. Then he saw me. He smiled, pointed a finger at me and winked. Then he stepped to the plate and turned serious. He struck out that time.

Next time up, he winked at me again, as a way to tell me he knew I was there watching and that my presence meant a lot to him. These signals became a routine. Sometimes, it was just a nod. I would nod or wink back.  Those signals between us were better than the post-game hug or the bedtime kiss. The wink was just for me. I couldn’t help being completely drawn into his world by these heartwarming gestures.  When June finally came, we were sad to see the season end.  His team rallied at the end, coming in third in the final tournament and earning medals.  John hung his well-earned medal on a hook in his bedroom, along with his baseball cap, where they stayed all fall and winter, paying homage to his favorite sport.

Now it’s time for a new season. My husband is going to work early so he can be home in time to play catch. Emma says she wants to learn how to keep the scorebook so she can help. John has his glove oiled up and his bat bag packed. What about me?  I’m practicing my wink.