A lump in my throat.
It’s only practice.
The coach bellows to Oliver. Move from short to the mound. You pitch.
Oh, my God, what if he gets shelled?
What if he hits a batter?
What if he’s really good and his head swells?
What if I become a little-league father?
I shouldn’t worry; we’ve been playing catch year round. He throws heat in the dead of winter. We play in the backyard, in the alley, in the park, anywhere we can grab a game of catch. Sometimes my knees won’t cooperate, and the ball gets away from me. It rolls half a block away.
I try to roll with the butterflies in my belly. He’s just 11. It’s just practice. Life is practice. Let him go.
It’s a lesson I learned 12 chilling years past – the day doctors told us a birth defect in Oliver’s plumbing might end his life even before he sprang from his mother’s womb. Haunting words I still can’t shake more than a decade later. This must be every parent’s worst nightmare: that his offspring doesn’t get a chance to see the world become a better place, that his seed doesn’t make the family tree stronger, that his kids can’t right what generations have done wrong, that love can’t cure all ills.
I’ve never allowed failure to enter my mind – even that day we learned Oliver might not survive until birth. I figured I better learn how to let go – and live – because life is precious. Noble though my intentions might be, I can’t protect him from all of life’s misfortunes, catastrophes or bad breaks. Still, I hope to catch him should he fall.
But he’s not falling. He’s sailing. Batter after batter can’t catch up to his fastball. When they connect, it’s usually a slow grounder that is gobbled up and thrown to first. You’re out!
I’m out of breath. The coach wants to talk to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think he should be throwing curveballs yet,” I say. The coach’s piercing eyes melt my normally confident facade. I regress 30 years. The dad is a boy now, a catcher, listening attentively to his all-knowing coach telling him to get down in the dirt, stop the ball at all costs, don’t worry about broken bones. You can catch it.
Dropped balls and broken bones are merely opportunities to better our best, so I think great coaches wish us to think. Somehow, they help us overcome our greatest fears, help us see our not-so-obvious shortcomings and rage, rage against our genetic deficiencies. At least that’s the kind of coach I remember having. It’s the kind of coach I would hope to become for both our kids – whatever games they decide to play in life.
“No,” the coach says. “He’s got a good arm.” My son? Really? My genes?
Good luck. “I want him to throw 30 or 40 pitches every day. Have his sister stand in as a batter,” the coach instructs me. “I want him to get used to throwing inside.”
My kid’s got game! Practice pays! I’m sure he’s destined to play for the Red Sox or the Cubbies or the lowly Colorado Rockies. I start counting his money. I see my house on the beach. We’ll be on MTV’s Cribs. Instant millionaires, bling-bling. I’m sure we’ll be on the cover of Sports Illustrated. Fame and fortune are just a fastball away.
We fly arm-in-arm to the car. Oliver tells me, “That was fun.”
His words hit me like a 95-mph fastball. I didn’t see it coming, and it comes too fast to duck. This kid’s got heart. He’s wise like Buddha even though he looks more like SpongeBob SquarePants. How can a child be so sage? Are all children this connected to the truth? Do major-leaguers still call it fun?
I tell Oliver I love him and am proud of him for trying. I think, forget Sports Illustrated. I don’t need a crib on the beach. I don’t need a MTV music video. I need time. More time. Time with my son.
Soon he’ll be gone. Raised. Off to college, a career, a wife, babies? I pray the surgeries he suffered as an infant have corrected his pipes. That one kidney is enough. That I will be a match should he ever need a kidney. I pray he will live a long life. A life well lived, treasured friends and perfect health and always playing. Is this not every parent’s wish for their children?
He wishes we can play catch when we get home. I suggest he should rest his arm. Better I rest my hopes.
Driving, I race to quiet my mind. My charge is not to dream his dreams, but to show him that win or lose, whiff or homer, that he already is a winner. That I love him all the same. That practice, patience and persistence pay immense rewards in baseball and in life. That the passionate pursuit of one’s dream is a good thing. That I can still catch his junk and bust his fastball over the fence.
He taunts me. I give in. Ten pitches in the alley. No more. Ten pitches turns into 20, 30, 40. My knees are sore. His spirit soars. I rejoice in life and the lessons a father learns from his boy.
