It wasn’t the hit.
The metal bat made a solid ping as it sent the baseball soaring toward the vine-covered fence in right-center field. I’d heard the sound before, mostly when watching the Little League World Series or college baseball games on television. I heard it occasionally during my son’s games in person too, though less often. This moment notwithstanding, pitchers his age often struggle to find the strike zone, which means the batters are less likely to have the chance to connect so directly.
It wasn’t the swing.
Long gone are the days when he would amble over to home plate, take his stance and bring his bat around with the faint hope of making contact. Now he walks up with a purpose, plants his cleats firmly in the dirt and sways back and forth slightly while the pitcher sets. He raises the bat high over his back shoulder, drawing little “O’s” in the air as he waits for the delivery. He takes a step toward the mound and swings over the plate, extending his arms and following through. I admire his form and hope that I looked that smooth swinging the bat when I was his age.
It wasn’t the sound.
The aforementioned ping may not be quite as emotionally evocative for baseball purists as the crack of a wood bat meeting cowhide, even if the action it represents is just as exciting. Either way, once parents start yelling – which they do – and players start cheering – which they did – it’s hard to hear anything else anyway. The pounding of feet on gravel, the smack of the ball hitting a glove, the scrape of knees sliding into second, all get consumed by the proverbial crowd going wild.
It wasn’t the past.
His travel team last year didn’t win a single game. They made progress throughout the summer, without question; the team at the end of the season was a far cry from the team that started it. Every player learned to play his position and the team came together to keep many of those last games close. There had been an obvious disparity in talent and age between them and their opponents but they still fought.
This year’s team had a number of different players from last year but the results were similar. They lost their first four games, three of which by ten runs. The coaches and parents were already finding it more difficult to encourage the players to keep a positive attitude. Winning and losing are both contagious and our kids definitely seemed to have caught the wrong bug.
It wasn’t the situation.
There weren’t two outs and it wasn’t the bottom of the ninth inning. With only one out in the bottom of the first inning, the level of pressure was relatively low. The bases were loaded, however, and he had a chance to inflict damage – either on the scoreboard or to his ego. A strong hit and he would have rejoiced; a strikeout would have left him dejected and embarrassed.
It wasn’t his attitude.
He developed a bit of a swagger somewhere along the line. He knows he can hit; the small dents in his new bat and the bruises he has left on batting cage balls provide plenty of evidence to that effect. His confidence has risen so high that he sometimes has to be reminded of the need for discipline. “Lay off the high ones,” I call from the dugout. “Wait for your pitch,” my wife yells from the stands.
It wasn’t the memory.
I played on a summer baseball team one summer when I was in middle school. I hit mostly grounders and watched from right field, hoping the ball would be hit somewhere else. Needless to say, I was far from an all-star. But there was one game where everything came together for me. The pitch came, I swung right through the ball and smacked a line drive over the second baseman’s head into deep right-center field.
I took off toward first base and wheeled around toward second. I felt my glasses slip off the bridge of my nose as I passed the shortstop but kept running. The field had become a blur of green and tan and all I could do was pray that a throw back to the infield would not hit me. I made it home and somehow managed to replace my glasses on my face before my teammates mobbed me at the plate.
My inside-the-park homer was my team’s only run of the game – we lost 10-1 – but it was the most fun I’d had all season.
It wasn’t the similarities.
My father told me that my swing as I hit that home run reminded him of my favorite Cub player, Ryne Sandberg. I couldn’t help but have a similar thought as I watched my son swing. He was just as fluid; his bat sliced through the dusty air and sent the ball to the same spot. He scampered around the bases, unhindered by blurry vision or dislodged glasses, building speed as he ran.
I felt my heart leap into my throat as the third base coach waved him on. He dashed toward home and stepped on the plate, barely slowing down enough to avoid running into the backstop. His teammates surrounded him immediately, screaming louder than any adults watching, their amazement erupting into the afternoon air.
It’s not every day they get to see a grand slam home run, after all.
And still, hours after the dust settled and the voices died down, there was only one detail I could think of. I could see his face as he approached third base, sprinting at full speed toward his coach waving him home. It was an expression of pure joy, from his wide grin to his twinkling eyes to the roses beginning to bloom in his cheeks. In a year that presented so many challenges, he had given his teammates something for which they could cheer.
My son’s home run meant so much to him and to his team.
But, for my wife and for me, it was his smile that meant the most.
