Good Eye

Another mom and I are talking together as he trots over into position. I subtly lean over to get a better look, nodding in conversation; my mind more on him, than her. She completely understands. You get better at this as the years go by; but only in perspective. There is something about your son coming to the plate that requires a mother's watchful eye and encouragement, as though he were braving the high dive or peddling without training wheels for the first time ever. He knows this too, in some primal way, even at 13, having swung the bat about a jillion times, (not counting the wobbly ones she lobbed in the backyard when Dad couldn't be there to do it.) He has to do this alone, without help from you or anyone else; at the mercy of another 13 year old wielding a baseball shaped rock with all the power he can muster. And he knows it's really tougher on mom than she would ever dare to admit.

There are stacks upon stacks of pictures recording his first swing at T ball until now; every year of his life, save the year he decided not to play, and then regretted it. It should clearly tell the story, this library of ours. But it doesn't, not really. You just never capture on film the really good stuff; the things that stop time for a minute, and hop off, leaving time to start again. Like the blizzard of 93. My oldest son and I braved that one together. For days, alone, no power, no heat; no real way to get out for food. Of course, I had known it was coming, and had prepared, I had thought. I remember the extreme cold; worrying about my husband; my other family members. Worrying my son would get sick or something and I couldn't get him to the hospital. We have spoken about this experience many times since then, J.P. and I. He never mentions the cold much, or being held captive with no way in or out. He doesn't remember any of it that way. "Hey, Mom...Remember when you cooked the soup over the fireplace and we roasted hot dogs like a camp out? That was cool..." He remembers me like a super hero.

About a month ago after showing up for practice early, I had taken it into my head to let Ryan "pitch" some balls to me so that I could see what all the fuss was about. After just one "I can't pitch it any lighter" Mom pitches, I wanted to run screaming into the night, terrified. I not only did not hit the ball, I had no desire to do anything with it, except to escape my precarious position at the plate, leaving us both doubled over in hysteria. It was my turn to think of my son as the super hero. I filed that one away in the time standing still moments of life; definitely one of our favorite "at bats." Priceless.

I confess I haven't learned much about the game itself, but I think you could write a sermon on the lingo. Keep your head down....don't go for the junk...make it be your pitch...Way to look...Good eye...Don't watch strike three...It's a lesson in life, encouraging your child at the plate. Whatever he chooses, I want him to choose it wisely; never reaching for what is not worth reaching for. I pray he will always turn to God for the wisdom to know what is, and then have the courage to swing with all of his might in whatever he's called to do. Because its almost always the hardest hits that count, whether they sail over the outstretched glove of the Center fielder, or land square in the small of your back after a wild pitch. Either way, you get on base, if you run hard enough, or really want it badly enough to fight through the pain.

And so he steps up to the box and assumes the position. I can see, already, what's in his head, almost exactly what he's telling himself. The way he stares it down; tunes everything out, but what he needs to think about in the moment. I can tell if he wants it; where his mind is. And I know, instinctively, whether he will slam it, or whiff it, just by the way he's standing. The pitcher, staring back, sizes him up. Pause, turn, release. It rockets through the air towards my son, who must decide its worth. Let it go, or swing with all that's in him.

I watch him there alone, knowing he will do this again many more times in his life. "Good eye!" I tell him, as the ball sails wide. Make it be your pitch. Don't go for the junk. And swing for the stars.