Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Batting Practice

I have a friend whose son has been batting and throwing accurately and with frightening power since about the age of two.  He is the same age as my Ian.  She posts on FB his amazing little league exploits.  My son plays ball too.  Totally different story.

My goals for Ian this baseball season were simple.  #1) Finish the season. #2) Hit the ball once.  #3) Win one game.  #4) Never lay down in the outfield while a game was in progress.  #5) Don't adjust 'furniture' (aka-the cup) whilst on the field and in front of everyone.

He's achieved some.  He hit in his first game, out of the infield and to many applause.  He too has an RBI.  He is about to finish the season in a week or so.  His team has won two games.  He has lay down in the outfield, just once though (and he said he just needed to take a little break).  And well, furniture is meant to be adjusted (so my husband says) so I'll just let that one go.

He is either a rock star or a rock.  With my Ian there is no sports (or life) middle ground.  

Last night I felt terrible as he stood in the batters box and never swung the bat.  I felt bad that he wasn't successful.  I was frustrated with him for not even trying.  When asked, he said none of the balls looked like something he could hit.  Okay.  

I also felt a little jealous of the rock stars of the team. You know, like my friend's son, the ones who always hit, always start and always, well, play fairly well.  I want Ian to be one of those kids.  He's not.  He might be someday.  Then again, he might not.

I realized I need to take 'me' out of the ballgame.  I need to put him, and mothering him to the fullness of his potential, in the center of this game and every other game of life.  My natural competitiveness has to take a back seat to supporting my son.  Out of the entire world the one person he must always count on to solidly be in his corner-cheering him on-will be me.  

(On a lighter, and less mommy epiphany note, Ian did start a brilliant cheer from his perch in the dugout.  It incorporated my father and my favorite sarcastic comeback.  Seriously, it did.  It went something like this, "Get a hit!  Get a hit! A single or a double! Seriously, get a hit! Seriously!"  Seriously, I love this kid!)

EPILOGUE-Tonight we had baseball practice.  As Ian stepped up to the plate I remember it is about him and not the number of hits.  It would be about the number of cheers from his number one fan-me.  It would also be about the approval from the 'men's men' coaches.  They are all the definition of testosterone, however, they demonstrate a humor and care about our little fellas that is truly memorable to this mama.  Tonight, after a few stance adjustments, Ian was hitting it out of the infield better than ever.  Coach Steve, a brusque guy who picks on the Moms who hover around practice, said, "And this is the guy who told me he wasn't any good at our first practice.  Look how good you are doing now.  I told you it would get better!"  Ian grew an inch at the praise.  My heart grew too.  He will get better at this baseball thing.  And so will I.