Between the Lines: A Father, A Son, and America's Pastime

Sam and I drop Cathy off at grandpa’s house. She is flying to Boston the next day to attend our nephew’s wedding. We have a tournament this weekend, so Sam and I stay home. Only one block from grandpa’s house, Sam says, “I miss mommy.”
“Sure you do. She’s been gone nearly thirty seconds,” I say, thinking that he is joking.
Now through what appear to be real tears, he says, “She’ll miss my last game.”
“Sam, are you serious?”
“Yes,” he replies, now sobbing. “Are there pictures of her at home?”
“This is not our last tournament,” I assure him. “Mom will still get to see many games.”
“It’s not fair. I’ve never been on an airplane. I never should have played all stars.”
Again, Sam is using every trigger to release the emotion he is experiencing over his mother’s absence. Tomorrow, for the first time, Sam will know that mom is not in the stands watching him. She will not be sitting there with all the other mothers to cheer for every accomplishment. She will not be there with the rest of them to feel the hurt and offer encouragement after the setbacks.
Dads are allowed to pace back and forth on the field or behind the backstop to calm the nerves. We can yell and scream at the umpires, at other coaches, in some cases at the players or even at each other, to release the tension.
For the most part, moms sit quietly and watch the game. Even those who do not understand the nuances of baseball watch every out; they watch every pitch. They are devastated with each error or strikeout; they celebrate every hit and catch. Moms feel the pain when their child gets hit by a pitch or a thrown ball, just as if the ball had pegged them. If given the chance, they would have gladly traded places and taken a shot in the ribs to avoid their child’s pain.
It is that kind of empathy I witness from Tyler’s mom one afternoon. Tyler’s team plays the game before ours. I stand near her behind the backstop. She is no longer able to sit in the stands and watch him bat. She informs me that he has been in a bad slump and is miserable. Tyler strolls to the plate. In keeping with his wishes, she does not yell any words of encouragement. He says it embarrasses him. I want you there, mom, but I don’t want you to yell anything, especially if I strike out. In a hushed voice and with a pained look on her face, she adds that he feels like he is letting his team down.
Her explanation is interrupted with each pitch as she twists and contorts right along with her son. Her body English escalates into a full pirouette as Tyler swings and misses the final strike. That kind of empathy creates the tears that she tries to hide as she quietly watches Tyler walk back to the dugout with his head down.
Moms smile and look on as the players and coaches hug and high five each other after a big victory. As they watch from a distance, no doubt they wonder what the coaches are telling their boys in the huddle after a tough defeat. As Sam instructed his mother when he was a three year old batboy for his cousin Mark’s team, huddles are just for players and coaches.
Following each game, our uniforms are hung up in the laundry room, clean and ready for an early morning game the next day. The mud has been knocked off Sam’s cleats and his equipment bag is unzipped in order to allow his sweaty equipment to dry out. She hands us our hats on the way out the door as we wander around in circles mumbling about where they could possibly be. When we arrive at the field, there is always one cold bottle of Gatorade in Sam’s bag and one in my ball bucket.
My mother arrives early to our game the next morning to assure that she gets a seat where she can see everything. She walks toward the bleachers dragging her oversized umbrella behind her. Not even the impending rain will keep her away. I help her up to the second row in the bleachers where she can see over the cross bar in the chain link fence.
Halfway through the game, the rain is steady. Mom is still in the stands, in the same seat in the second row, her umbrella now overhead. The rain worsens and we trail our opponent the entire game. By the end of a miserable loss, mom is the only fan left in the stands. Everyone else had retreated to their warm, dry cars. Following the team huddle, I walk over to the bleachers where she still sits. “What’s the deal, are you planning to stay for the next game too?’
“I can’t get down,” she explains.
“So that’s why you stayed for the whole thing.” Although, I know – and her expression confirms - that she would not have left, even if she could have.
Before Sam and I arrive home from grandpa’s house, Sam regains his composure and seems able to continue on without his mother for a few days. We enter the house and Sam asks, “Dad, can I sleep with you in your bed?”
“I don’t see why not.”
He smiles. “And, dad…?” he continues.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do I have to take a shower?”
“Well, maybe we’ll skip it just this once.”
We may wear dirty uniforms before it is over, but a weekend alone with dad has some advantages.