Gnats, like a dark cloud, hovered
over the field tonight during my son’s game.
Within the first thirty seconds one flew into my eye and immediately my
eye filled with water, a natural attempt to flush it out. But the critter was stubborn and refused to budge. As a reflex, my hand flew up to my face and
rubbed my eye trying to clear it out, but instead I wedged the little bugger in
deeper. With blurry vision and a slight
sting in my eye I tried to force my attention on the field so that I could
coach my players. Meanwhile, the gnats
were stealing my son’s concentration and instead of paying attention to the
batters he was busy trying to catch the gnats that flew around his face. Though he tried hard to capture them in his
little hand, he did not successfully imprison a single one. Absorbed as he was in the gnats, the one ball
that was hit in his direction during the first inning was fielded by another
boy, one who actually had his eye on the ball.
In the second inning, while my son
stood on the pitcher’s mound a ball was hit directly at him. Somehow, he managed to knock the ball out of
the air with the back of his glove and when it bounced it struck him in the
leg. Not about to let it get away from him, my son snatched it up, sprinted to
first and when he was only about three inches from the first basemen he finally
threw the ball. I quickly commended my
son for “catching” the ball but explained that he needed to throw the ball as
soon as he picked it up so that he didn’t inadvertently hurt the first basement
with his throw. Several plays later I
was happy to see that he listened to me.
The ball was tapped onto the grass and my son charged after it. Scooping it up, he turned, pulled his arm
back and released the ball. When I gave
him a thumbs up, he smiled broadly, happy that he had executed the play
properly. In the final inning he had one more play, but quiet possibly would
have had more had he not been preoccupied.
Having moved on from the gnats, the mud absorbed all his interest. Instead of standing in the ready position as
each batter swung, he spent his time digging in the mud with his cleats. When the noise of the other kids running
after the ball caught his attention, he simply lifted his head, shrugged at the
action and then resumed his task, seeing perhaps how deep he could get before
the inning ended.
In the second inning, he was the
lead of batter. After he swung hard and
got a solid hit, I screamed at him to run.
But run he did not. After
watching the ball for a second or two, he turned to me and said, “Can I run all
the way around?” “No,” I gently grabbed
his arm and started tugging him towards first before the other team finished
grappling with the ball. Only the last
batter gets to run all the way around.
Based on the rotation I use so that each kid bats in a different place
in the line up each time up, my son got to bat last in the final inning. This time, instead of a strong solid hit, he
barely tapped it off the tee. But the
moment he made contact I saw him smile. “Run,” I instructed, “Run all the way
around.” And he did, smiling the whole
way, except his run was more like a trot.
By the time he rounded first all the other players had “scored.” When he sauntered home – long after the ball
had arrived – he face was radiant. In
his mind, he had hit a home run, a wonderfully fulfilling way to end the
game.
Photos by Kati Jaeger
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