Have you ever been sitting at a Little League game, watching your kid play baseball, when it dawns on you that you are the parent of that kid?

My moment of realization came when I noticed my hands were covering my face, which was buried in my lap.  And then I quickly sat up, afraid my son might’ve seen my embarrassment.

I realized every time he was at bat, I was saying the same things over and over.  “You’ll get ’em next time.”  “Good try.’  “You tipped it!”

Then there was the time when I physically cringed when he ran up to the ball and stared at it.  (‘The time’ being last night.  Ummm…after 4 years of playing baseball, how do you stare at the ball instead of picking it up???)

As I sat there, time and time again, embarrassed and feeling bad for him, I realized, I was embarrassed.  Of my son.  What kind of mother am I?  As if his lack of athleticism reflects on my parenting skills (even though it does reflect the part of the gene pool I handed to him).  I’m embarrassed for him because I know what the other kids on his team must be thinking.  You see them throw their arms up in frustration when he misses the ball.  I know they are disappointed when they are on base and he is up to bat.

I also noticed his enthusiasm, normally sky-high no matter what, fade, until he was downhearted, a shadow of the kid he had been. No longer did he say ‘I hit the ball over the fence!!’ referring to a ‘heads-up’ foul ball.  Now he walked back from the plate, his bat dragging behind, head slumped, time after time.  3 at-bats a game.  3 games a week.  The strike-outs add up.  He was the only player consistently not getting a hit.  And to make matters worse, when he was on the field, the ball couldn’t find it’s way into his glove, even if it was wearing GPS.

It is a terrible feeling to realize your kid is that kid.  But what’s even worse is watching what that does to his spirit.

As I watched this sad boy walk from the plate yet again, his boundless energy having finally met some boundaries, I thought about letting him quit.  But I remembered, that for awhile, he was having fun.  Even after those first few strikeouts, he was still having fun and cheering loudly from the field and the dugout every time a teammate made a play or got a hit.

Do I want to teach him that he should only be happy when he is winning?

How do I affirm my child’s worth when he is in the middle of something that says he is worthless?  How do I bring that spark back to his personality when he feels like he isn’t good at anything?  When he is outside desperately trying to swing high on a broken swing set so I can see how good he is at something, even if it’s just swinging.  He gets angry at the swing, and everyone around him, because he isn’t able to prove his worth to me, to himself.

Does he have to achieve to be worthwhile?

How do I fight this cultural truth that is really a lie?  How do I tell this brilliant child who knows more historical and geographical facts than anyone I know, who had read the entire Redwall series twice by the time he was 7, that none of it matters?  That he is good enough just for existing?

I hold him while he cries.

He knows there is some system of measurement set up and he is failing.  He cries that the only talent and hobby he has is being smart.  He knows that’s not important when you’re 9.  He knows these things too deep for words.  His soul feels worthless, and so he cries, helpless against genetics.

I talk to him, probably mostly in vain.

I tell him none of these kids are going to change their lives by hitting a baseball.  I tell him how valuable he is because God made him.  That his mind will be a strength, and isn’t it amazing that God gave him brains instead of baseball abilities?  I try to tell him knowledge will take him far.  That I would love him even if he was dumb and couldn’t swing a bat.  That he can have fun cheering on his team, and how great his team is, cheering for him every time, as if this might be his turn.  That just playing can be enough.  I try to convince him that how you bat the ball doesn’t determine your worth.

I stare him in the eyes and say that over and over “You are important.  God made you, and you are important.  You. Are. Important.”

And he believes me, for the moment at least.

And then I leave the room, damned if I’m not going to help him go down swinging.  He might not have athletic abilities, but we can at least give it our all.

A friend loans us a tool to practice batting.  We go out and practice all afternoon, only taking breaks when my hands hurt.  He learns a better stance (from me, the non-athlete.  I pray I’m not teaching him wrong.)  He swings and connects all afternoon.  I can see his confidence rising, that maybe he can pull it off, finally.  And if not, he has done his best, and that’s all God asks.

Off to the game we go.  He is finally at bat, and his team is standing at the fence, cheering him on.

Thwunk, the ball flies out from the machine.

Swing and a miss.  Strike.

1.

2.

3.

He walks back to the dugout, but this time he is smiling again.  He knows he has given it his all.  He knows that he is worth more than a strike-out says he is.

*******

That would have been a good and worthwhile ending.  But the actual ending is so. much. better.

He walks up to the plate for his second try.  He swings……and CONNECTS!  He hit the ball!  He makes it to 1st base, and the dugout screams in disbelief and happiness.

*******

That’s an even better ending, but the game wasn’t over!

The next batter comes up, and he makes it to 2nd.  A strike-out.  Another batter, and now he is in scoring position and he is BEAMING.  A batter strikes out, and somehow both teams have lost count of outs.  Someone yells, “That’s 3!” and off the base he comes, the other team heading to their dugout.  You can see he’s disappointed at not being able to score, but he got a hit!

But then the scorekeeper says, no, that’s only 2 outs!  Back on the field they go, and now he is really ready to run.

The next batter swings, hits, and he is off.  He triumphantly touches the plate, his arms in the air, cheering himself.  (and I forgot my camera!)

He runs back to the loudest dugout and his entire team surrounds him, pounding on his helmet and congratulating him.

They treated him as if he had hit a grand slam.  It was beautiful.  I was so proud of those 9 and 10 year olds who so easily could have been negative and frustrated and mean to him.  But they were some of his biggest cheerleaders, affirming his worth the whole time, which makes rejoicing when the good times come, that much sweeter.

***