Cub Pride
I'm on the sidelines next to the dugout of a skin baseball field. I'm 37 and I've all but given up on my hair for weekend hats and short buzz cuts. I have a smile on my face as the sun beats down on my legs. My son is taking his first swing of a baseball bat in an actual game.
I refused to let him play t-ball as we would learn the game in our backyard. Hours of wrestling and giggling with me chasing him with a ball have lead to this moment.
His helmet is too big and his mother, with such joy doesn't know who to take a picture of; my son swinging the bat in the on-deck circle or my pensive crouch next to the dugout fence.
He looks over and smiles at me.
He doesn't know anything about who I am other than the last 6 years. And really only about 2 of that. Any indiscretion about my life is non-existent. All he knows is that he feels safe with me and that I love him.
He waves his little hand and his helmet gets jostled around his face blocking his eyes. The bat is too big for him I think to myself. I motion for him to take a practice swing. He does and his feet fly in a circle and he's clueless on how to really swing a bat yet. He's having fun. I motion for him to come over to me.
He runs over to me and hugs me just before he is about to be called up to the plate. Oddly enough I kneel down and grab him by the shoulders and look him sternly in the eyes and simply say "Do your best up there. Remember we worked on keeping both hands on the bat and don't be afraid of the ball." He is a little shocked to hear that, but as he is my son, he sternly buttons his chin up and nods his head. I nod my head in a man to son moment. A moment of pride and respect that can only happen between a father and his son.
He turns around in a small child way and twirls his body 3 times in a row while whipping the bat like a sword. I roll my eyes. He really is my son I think to myself.
"Hey! No! We don't treat the bat like it's a toy. You have a job to...I suggest you go do it." The other parents look at me as if I'm a tyrant. They look at me as if I have no compassion for a 6 year old just trying to have fun. I pity them because being good at something is fun, and excelling at something is what makes things like baseball fun. It's only suckers who sit around and tell you that. "As long as you have fun...it doesn't matter." I mumble under my breath, "If you are good at something. Then it's fun. You are training your children in apathy. Your kids will be disappointing you before you know it."
I don't really believe in the entire let a kid be a kid philosophy. There are times when he is with his friends playing at the pool or in the yard that he can carefreely move himself. There are times when he is snuggled between his mother and I as I read to him that he is allowed to be a fantasy child. He is allowed to roam in those moments.
Unfortunately, some things do not organically open themselves to everyone. Sometimes you need to want to do something that you didn't want to do before.
He digs his little size 7 child-size cleats into the dirt and wipes his hands on his pants. His mother is poised behind the backstop with her camera and she cheers his name. I don't reprimand her...it's her son. He'll have to learn to deal with his mother embarrassing him at every sporting event until he's about 18. Chanted calls of "RUN! RUN! RUN!" and loud almost obnoxious praise and pride when the boy does something well enough to receive a spotlight will surround him throughout his years. That's his mother. It's what she wants to do and it's what she is supposed to do.
I'm not nervous but I'm pensive. I'm pensive to see how he will react to another boy throwing a ball at him. I have been throwing him batting practice for weeks and whiffle balls since he was 4 but this was another child. I see his little foot dig in the way I told him. He grips the bat and looks out with determination. I had never been prouder of anything in my entire life. For the first time I had really done something right. I felt like I had a new best friend forever. I left so overcome with love that I almost engraved the meaning of life into my arm right there on that field.
On the way home in the car I let him sit up front so he can tell me all about the game. His eyes dart at mine with electric light and he can barely sit still in the seat. He still has his glove in his lap. I turn on the radio nice and low and I can hear Rocket Man by Elton John playing in the background. My son knows the words because well, he's my son and that's how his brain works. He takes his glove and makes rocket movements with it. I take off his hat and rub his blonde hair. He leans his head out the window and watches all the trees go by as we drive.
"...and I think it's gonna be a long long time. ...and I think it's gonna be a long long time." E.J.
