Baseball daze

Rushing around trying to gather all the things a list said he needed for the new school year, my mind was divided when the boy dropped a truth on me:

“I don’t think I want to play baseball anymore.”

For a moment I stood in silence near the shopping cart, now mostly filled with paper and pencils and folders and binders.

I was holding up a pencil case for his final decision, wondering if the blue and black mesh would fit his newly-crafted style as a newly-minted sixth grader. “They don’t have any baseball cases. This one seems nice, though. Sturdy.”

“No, mom. The case is fine. I mean I think I’m done with baseball. For good.”

I keep standing there, still a little dazed.

I should be elated at the news. But I wanted to be wrong.

Since his first game of rookie ball, I’ve waited for the moment he’d call it quits. Give up the dream (he never dreamt) of going pro.

I listen to coaches argue over the rules, parents scream at their children, and I come to realize when I cheer my kid catching a pop-fly I am ecstatic as someone else’s kid suffers a defeat.

I hate this game.

Season after season, I dragged a folding chair to one baseball field or another — two hours of practice here, two hours of a game there — holding my breath as my deep-in-the-outfield boy steps up to the plate.

I sit next to other parents who tell me what sports have taught their children. They usually get to the “winning isn’t everything” part just as my kid strikes out.

The only other thing I’ve known about the lessons of sports is that unless you excel, only a few make the cut.

The dividing is already apparent.

Losing with grace is something I should be able to teach, as winning has never been my strong suit. They’ve heard all the stories; how I made JV volleyball in ninth grade (because I went to all the practices) but never once played in a game (because I was a terrible player). It wasn’t for me, but I gave it a shot.

Winning isn’t anything if you can’t play the game. My boy can’t help but toss the bat and storm off the field when he swings and misses.

It’s not as if he’s alone in his disappointment. His age group still breaks into tears when they get called out at first base.

Maturity, I know, is the best solution. But that means everyone must have patience and perseverance. And me, especially, not making unforced errors.

Of course, he wants to quit. We had just spent a small fortune on the Little League-approved bat, a backstop and a bucket of baseballs for practice.

What enthusiasm he had gained from paying attention and seeing a little improvement was dashed when a wild pitch snuck in between his chin and helmet and left a stitching-shaped bruise on his jaw.

Game over.

“So, what do you think?” He asks, flopping a package of paper into the cart. 

“It’s up to you,” I say. “Why don’t you get through basketball season and see how you feel. You still want to play basketball, right?

“Yeah, I love basketball. There is no way to get hit in the jaw with a baseball if I play basketball.”