Saturday was William’s first baseball game of the fall season. Seein’ as how most six year old boys are unable to throw well enough to get the ball to reach the plate, let alone get it in the strike zone, the coaches pitch to their own teams. This is a big step up from T-ball. I think the game lasts five innings, so I expected my William to get to bat once or twice.
Unfortunately, I missed his first at-bat. I was late because I had to pack the lunch, the water, the sunblock, feed and dress the baby, and get the daughter ready for dance class. Oh, and then there was the cleaning-up-of-the-pee on the bathroom floor. WTH? Why is it that there seems to either be something gross in the toilet, or something gross on the floor every time I walk into one of my bathrooms? It is like a booby trap…I walk into the bathroom, lift up the lid and SURPRISE! there is a present in there for me. You’d think by now I’d learn and it wouldn’t be such a shocker.
Anyway, back to baseball…
So I missed the first at-bat. The poor little guy struck out. But just as I made it to the field, he was up to bat again.
And strike three.
Head down, he drops the bat and walks back to the dugout. My heart broke a little right then. I watched as a few of the other kids got base hits and ran the bases and a couple others struck out. I’m sorry to say I breathed a little sigh of relief when some of the other kids struck out, too. Horrible, I know, but at least he wasn’t the only one. Hey, it’s all in the interest of conformity people.
Then, during defense (do you call it defense in baseball???), William played catcher. That’s a lot of gear. He looked a little uncomfortable as he hobbled to his spot behind home plate. But doesn’t he look cute?!
I’m not sure he could actually see out of that mask…he kept adjusting it, and yanking on it. Anyhoo…
Another inning went by and he got to bat again at the top of the fifth. I knew this would be his last shot to get a hit. Camera ready, I stood poised to capture his big moment, and said a little prayer that he could just get one little bitty hit.
At this point, I’m practically begging God to PLEASE let him hit it, just let him hit it. And I put my camera down, so I could watch my little boy, and not miss it if he did hit it.
He stood there, ready for the pitch.
The pitch came, he swung and he hit it. He actually hit it. I jumped to my feet — my heart was in my throat and tears in my eyes as I watched him run to first base, where he stood, biting his lip and smiling, ready for the next play. I couldn’t have been more proud of him than I was in that moment. And I couldn’t help but feel so lucky that he was my little boy. No, he didn’t score the winning run, and he didn’t do anything that 20 other boys didn’t do that day, too.
But just five years ago, I wondered if he would ever be able to play baseball. If he would have enough coordination, or strength, or speed. Now I sit here in the stands, the proudest one in the crowd, knowing what that little boy has been through, and what a tiny little miracle that hit was.
Thank you God. Thank you for every day miracles.