He pulled on his slightly-too-small helmet, wincing as he tugged it over his ears. We had been saying for weeks that he needed a new one – he was still using the same helmet he got when he started playing baseball three years ago – but life got in the way and we hadn’t been able to make it happen. I helped him slip on the batting gloves, holding the faded white fabric steady so he could push his hands in. He stretched and wiggled his fingers, adjusting for comfort, and held his hand out for me to tighten the Velcro base. He hoisted his bat out of his bag as we went over the details of his stance one last time. I gave him a smile and a few good-natured knocks on his helmet before he made the short walk to the batters box. He set his feet, bent his knees and lifted the bat behind him, elbow pointing directly back toward the umpire, just as we had discussed.
Three pitches went by and he made the same short walk back to the dugout.
His name wasn’t Casey and we weren’t in Mudville.
E had struck out.
The disappointment on his face was clear. He wasn’t crying but his lips were pursed with frustration. I don’t think anyone had told him the score – his team had been getting blown out consistently and the main purpose for most of his team was to learn more about the game and continue developing fundamentals. Still, I think he knew that his team needed him in that situation – losing by at least a few runs and up with two outs and the bases loaded. He had come up short in a big moment and he knew it.
He shoved his batting gloves in his pocket and removed his helmet. I handed him his hat and mitt, knelt down and looked him in the eye.
“Those were good swings,” I said firmly. “Good swings. You’ll have another chance at bat later, you’ll get them back. Now go out and help your team on defense.”
He nodded, took a swig of Gatorade and jogged out left-center field, no doubt relieved to be standing back in the shade and slightly removed from the action for a few minutes.
I made my way around to the bleachers behind the outfield where the rest of my family was sitting. We discussed the heat, our impressions of the opposing team and their families1 and, of course, the game. We continued to voice our support for E and his teammates, commending them for good plays and reminding them to stay focused. His team got out of the inning and, when they were up again, they managed to score five runs in an inning for the first time ever.2
It was during that half-inning that I saw it. The light had finally come on, not just for E, but for his entire team. Baseball wasn’t just something to do to pass the time. It wasn’t just something their parents were pushing or an unorthodox method of helping kids learn first-hand about mosquitoes and the glare of the evening sun. It wasn’t just trying to remember where the cutoff man was or who was supposed to be covering second or how many outs there were or who was supposed to be backing up third, all while coach was losing his voice barking instructions and reminders.
The revelation had come just in time: baseball was fun.
The kids have been improving with every practice and every game. They’ve learned when to throw and when not to throw. They’ve learned how to position themselves in the field to increase their chances of getting an out. They’ve learned how to have more productive at-bats by visualizing the strike zone and watching the ball hit the bat instead of staring straight ahead while they swing and hope for contact.3 They’ve learned to cheer each other on during the game, chant in the dugout and high-five teammates after they score. In short, they’ve learned how to enjoy playing together as a team.
They lost both games of Sunday’s doubleheader but the games had a different feel than the previous ones. E’s team gained – and held – a lead for multiple innings in the second game, only losing at the very last moment. The kids were all in good spirits afterwards, in spite of the negative result, because they knew they had played hard and they knew they had played well. They knew they were getting better and that the light at the end of the tunnel was not the whitish blur of a baseball whizzing near their heads; the light was the realization that a win was within reach, even if it hadn’t come that day. It was the understanding of the connection between their efforts in practice and the execution on the field. It was the renewed confidence in their abilities to compete with teams that were far more experienced.
The light at the end of the tunnel was hope.
1. These families meant business. The team had home and away uniforms, as opposed to just one jersey, and someone had brought a canopy tent to protect the group from the sun. This clearly was not their first rodeo.↩
2. The league has a five run mercy rule per inning. Score five runs and the inning is over, regardless of how many outs have been made.↩
3. E’s coach taught him this very lesson. “If you keep looking at me while you swing, that means you’re losing sight of the ball about three or four feet in front of you. Now, you’re so good, that you can still guess where it’s going to be and usually hit it, but that’s not always going to work. You gotta watch the ball hit the bat.”↩
