It’s not about the baseball
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I went yesterday to pick up boy 7 after his baseball practice. I watched him for the last 20 minutes he was there—at least as much as I could while also watching Boy 4 and Girl 2 on the playground. (And I missed part of the baseball action when that little turd of a 4-year-old [someone else’s, not mine] punched Girl 2 in the stomach. Not with much force, mind you. He’s just four and his stance was all wrong, but that didn’t stop me from stomping toward him. He saw me coming and lit out for the territories. It’s a good thing, too. But Girl 2 was unscathed despite my outrage. She threw a handful of playground bark at me and giggled, which is just what she did to the lucky-to-be-alive 4 year old right before he punched her.)
He swung that bat for a good 15 minutes, facing a pitching machine and a patient coach. I think he connected once. I offered what encouragement I could. “Good try! You’ll get it next time. Keep your elbow up! (Luke! Don’t lick the monkey bars!) Just keep your eye on the ball. Choke up. Choke up. Choke UP!”
He swung away at every pitch, whether the ball was roling on the ground or a foot above his head. Now that I look back on it, I realize that he must have had his eyes closed. That’s the kindest explanation.
He was a little subdued on our way home and when we got in the house, he said. “I don’t think I’m cut out for baseball.”
“Oh yeah? Howcome?”
“It’s a lot harder without a tee.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I didn’t realize it would be that hard. It’s like they brought me to a whole new level.”
“Well…yeah. It is a whole new level. It’s a lot harder than tee-ball.”
He lost interest and went about his evening, but I was unnerved by his opening line. It was his first, maybe second practice in the big leagues, where they try to hit a moving ball, not one that’s resting on a tee at waist level. And yet he sounded so certain, so resolved, as if he’d just realized something inalterably true about himself, like “I have five fingers on each hand.” I’m not cut out for baseball.
I told him what you’d expect any dad to tell his son. Well, you’re brand new, it takes practice, everything is hard when you first try it. But I could tell he didn’t believe me.
My answers were just skating across the surface of what I really wanted to tell him, but of course could not: You’re only seven! You’re not qualified yet to know what you are and are not cut out for, much less to be so blasted sure about anything. Now go forth and don’t ever judge yourself harshly again.
He wouldn’t have understood. And I would have felt like a hypocrite.
