The crack of the bat. The smell of the grass. The squint of the pitcher’s eyes as he looks at the catcher’s sign. Ernie Harwell’s voice saying, “That ball is LOOONG GONE!” The murmurs of the crowd, “That’a way, buddy! Nice hit!” Since I was young, baseball has always been my sport.
Last spring, I signed up our youngest to play T-ball, which she dutifully attended. Her friend’s dad picked Becca for his team. “I’ll be your bench coach,” I said. I think he HEARD assistant coach--like, the person who helps you teach kids how to play. After a while, he figured out what I meant: I lined their tiny bodies up on the bench in the dugout, led cheers of, “Let’s go, Becca, let’s go!” as we batted, made sure kids were ready to run out with helmets and bats when it was their turn, took little people for their umpteenth bathroom break in between batters. After a long day at school--with its testing and curriculum and behavior plans and teaching criteria and parent expectations--I sometimes thought, “Ugh, this is the last thing I want to do tonight.” But the second I’d get there, I was in love. Their adorable faces beaming up at me from under those enormous batting helmets. Their smiles lighting up when they made contact with the ball; the light in their eyes as they’d run the bases, like they could feel the way a homerun would feel; the way they’d all swarm to a hit ball like ants to honey and then ‘throw’ it to the first baseman, who was usually either playing in gravel or chatting with the opposing player on the bag… It was beautiful. It was better than any glass of wine I could have had each evening. I would come home joyed, relaxed, refreshed. Ready for another stressful day of the real world the next day.
At the end of the season, our coach, Josh Gaus, had the kids huddle around him. He had purchased each of them a medal himself, and one-by-one he hung the medal around their necks, looked into their eyes, and said in a serious and sincere voice, “I really enjoyed having you on my team this year. You did a great job. I hope you liked playing ball.” Most gave him a hug afterward. As for me and the other parents, there wasn’t a dry eye on the field. I knew, if this man coached again in future years, I would bench coach for him forever.
As luck would have it, Becca didn’t want to play this year. I was crushed. Josh was crushed. Then fate intervened. Tri-Rivers didn’t have enough coaches for coach pitch, and my son, Ben, was on coach pitch. So, Josh agreed to coach T-ball AND a coach pitch team, and I got to be a fan involved, a side-line coach, a leader of the cheers.
It has, again, been a stressful spring. My gut is a mess, work is crazy, and raising three kids is nothing like The Brady Bunch promised it would be. But, when I go to baseball practice, I feel it. “I could be Miguel Cabrera,” they’re all thinking. We’re teaching them how to stand, where to throw, which direction to look when the batter’s up. But, really we’re teaching them the dream of baseball. They still have it, the passion for the crack of the bat, the smell of the grass, the murmurs of the crowd. And, yeah, some drawing in the gravel and chatting on the bases, too. But their sheer ‘aliveness’ in the game--it rejuvenates me. Calms my inner critic, relaxes my brain, makes me take a moment to breathe it all in, gives me the boost I need to work another day in the frenzied adult world. Play ball!
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