Game Ball
On baseball, childhood, and the memories I hope outlast the pain.
Ding!
The ball connects with his bat and he takes off to first as it arcs through the air, higher and further with each step. His coaches are yelling “Go! Go!” and the crowd’s enraptured, watching that ball sail way back towards the tree line. His coach waves him on at third as the outfielders rush to try and catch it, but the ball keeps flying.
Everyone’s cheering, but I barely hear them as my heart leaps when he pounds toward home, the other kids desperately trying to throw the ball back to the infield, but they’re too young to get it there in time.
He runs through home plate, and his face lights up when he looks up at his friends jumping and yelling from the dugout. He does his high-pitched, excited half-scream and is quickly swallowed by his team when he comes back through the fence. They’re tied now. It’s the bottom of the inning and they’ve only got one more left. They’ve got a shot.
They manage to win in the last inning, beating the number one team in their league. Everyone’s patting his shoulders as they head to their team huddle and I’m fighting back tears when I see the broad smile on his face, fresh off the high only high-stakes sports victories can create.
“Did you see me!?” He exclaims as he rushes off the field toward me, cheeks flushed and clutching the game ball.
“Yeah, I did! You were incredible!” I smile as he gives me the biggest hug he’s given me in a while.
My heart swells and I still fight back those tears, ruffling his hair and listening to his mom show him the video she got of that last home run. I was too focused to record it.
Coming to his games, no matter the sport, always gets to me. He genuinely loves to play, and he’s truly a gifted athlete. You’d think he was my kid with how excited I get.
But really, it’s about more than if he’s winning, more than scoring that touchdown or hitting that home run.
In these moments, he’s a regular 10-year-old boy.
He’s sweating, his pants are dirty, and he’s smiling from ear to ear, not a care in the world except where we’re going to celebrate.
Those are the core memories I hope he holds onto.
The flag football catches, the basketball goals, the ding! from his bat ringing in his ears.
I hope he remembers the sounds of his teammates cheering for him, the roar of the crowd.
Maybe victory’s glow will outshine trauma’s dark shadow.
Maybe the blood he remembers will be from his knees, not his face.
Only time will tell.
But for right now, we’re hugging him and going out for McDonald’s chicken nuggies.
The rest is just background noise.