I took Rollie to his baseball game today. It’s a t-ball league, and pretty laid back. They play to three outs or five runs per inning. Most of the time, the innings are over when someone gets five runs; the hitting is pretty good. The fielding is downright Bad News Bears material. (I am not kidding.) The kids take turns at each position, so that they all get to try them out (and so that everyone gets a chance at the ball – very rarely does the ball make it to the outfield. Usually, it goes blazing out to about half the distance between the plate and the pitching mound. So, the pitcher and the 3rd basemen usually field most of the balls and then (attempt) to throw the ball to make the out at first. Rarely does it get there.
So, Rollie was taking his turn at pitcher in the second inning. Note that pitcher is the person designated to stand at the mound, and has nothing to do with pitching the ball, because they use a t. So, this kid gets up to bat, and hits the ball right towards Rollie, it takes a funny hop at the mound and comes up and thwaps him in the face. I was v. proud of myself for just sitting on the bleachers and not moving, waiting to see if he cried, or bled, or passed out. None of these happened. Coach came over and looked at him, and i think that was when Rollie started crying, and they sent him to the dugout. I met him there, sat down on the bench and he crawled up in my lap and sobbed. I held him and petted his head, got him calmed down and then took a look at this cheek.
It looked fine. Maybe a little red.
“Does it hurt baby?”
“No,” he said, bursting into tears again.
“Well, then why are you crying?” I said, in my usual sweet, compassionate, and tactful manner. I got that feeling where you know the kid is just trying to get attention and you want to nip it in the bud. I decided an old joke was in order.
“You know, baby, when I said for you to get in front of the ball and make the stop, I didn’t mean with your head!”
Me and the dugout mom laughed our heads off at my joke, trying to get him to crack a smile.
Rollie burst into tears again.
“Baby, what is it? Are you embarrassed?”
“Noooo,” he wailed into my neck, “I don’t want to lose my turn at pitcher!”
The Show Dad (That’s what I call the t-ball world equivalent to the infamous show moms of the pageant world) in the dugout with us whipped his head around and eyed Rollie, then nodded approvingly.
I looked at Rollie in no little amazement. He wasn’t crying because he was hurt. He was crying because Coach had benched him and he wanted to stay in the game. He wanted back in the game!
Show Dad kneeled down next to us, looking at Rollie on eye-level: “You wanna go back in, kid?”
Rollie nodded, wiping the tears.
“Alright, son,” Show Dad nodded.
“COACH!” Show Dad yelled out to Rollie’s coach. “We need to make a substitution! Rollie’s coming back in at Pitcher!”
The Ump held up the batter, and we stuck Rollie’s hat back on his head, and handed him his glove. Dugout Mom opened the gate and we sent him back out to the mound amidst clapping, and cheering, and one, “Way to get back out there, kid!!!”
And my heart? It just about busted wide open with pride.
