What We Do for Our Children

It was my older son's first baseball game of the little league season today. That sounds pretty typical for a spring in the life of an almost seven year old boy; however, this seven year old boy is about as baseball obsessed as they come.

Last season he got his first taste of little league with tee-ball, 15 five and six year old boys with three gems for coaches--watching them may have been the the funniest thing I have seen to date. Whenever they played defense, for example, if the ball got in the neighborhood of the shortstop about six boys would tear after it, literally boxing each other for who got to throw the ball in. Dirty, sweaty, crazy boys in those warming days of spring--they are Sunday afternoons I will not soon forget.

And my son, he literally cannot forget. "Remember on May 7th when we played the Red Sox? I hit that ball all the way out to right field!" I can't remember what I did last weekend, let alone last May. And that's not all; every professional game he attended is also etched in his memory. Once in a while we'll be driving along and he'll pipe up with a question like, "Mom, remember that game we went to on June 11th when the Giants played the Dodgers, that was before the Dodgers got Manny, boy I'm glad they got him, anyway, remember that day? Did Tim Lincecum pitch a two hitter or a three hitter? I forget." Yes, baseball obsessed he really is.

He hardly slept last night, came in three times to tell me how excited he was. Before we left the house for the game he said, "Mom, you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, for the third time, I have all your stuff in the back of the car where it always is." I was annoyed; I mean really, I'm thrilled he's excited but he's working my last nerve with the level of anxiousness.

We get to the ballpark, unload, walk down the street, across the playground, go around the fence and up the hill to the field. We get to the top and I see his team across the field, so I drop all our stuff (and there's a lot of it; I believe in being prepared for anything) and I begin to dig in his bag for his things. 

"Here's your batting gloves, here's your helmet, here's your bat, here's your mitt, here's your socks, (he's starting to look like he might fall over with all the gear I'm handing him) here's one cleat...HOLY CRAP!"

"What, what?!" says the loaded down child who can hardly contain his excitement for the game to begin.

"WHERE"S YOUR OTHER CLEAT?"

"I DON'T KNOW!"

At this point I think, ok it's recoverable. It's likely fallen out in the car. I'll just run back and get it. I turn to my sons and say, "Ok, it must be in the car. You guys stay right here and stay together, I'll be back." One is almost seven and one is three, not the mother of the year moment for me to say the least.

I tear down the hill, hop the fence, across the playground, up the street (have I mentioned I'm in Birkenstocks?) into the car. I'm pulling apart the back of the car, nothing. I go into the back seat, no dice. Into the front seat, zippo. I start to pray. Please God, please let me find the cleat. I go through the whole car again. Nada.

Back down the street, across the playground, hop the fence, up the hill to the field. "It's not there." Three words couldn't have devastated my son more.

"Will I have to sit out?" he asks, lip quivvering, head bowed, giant tear filled blue eyes looking up at me.

"Absolutely not. I'm going to take care of this, I promise." We run across the field, I tell the assistant coach the dilemma and promise to be back as soon as I can. I drop all my junk (notice now it's "junk" and not "preparedness") and ask another mother to watch my three year old (she says sure, he says forget it). New plan, drag the kid. Let's go.

So we're running down the hill and I lift him over the fence when another mother, one of a longtime friend of my older son and known to my younger one, calls, "Tommy, come play with us! Mom will be back." God bless that woman and my son who very uncharacteristically agrees. I toss him back over the fence to her and take off. Across the playground, down the street, into the car. I break every traffic law in town and still a ten minute drive never took so long. I'm driving, praying, "God, please clear my path. Please clear my path." I'm crying, not tearing mind you, crying. 

I get home, run through the garage. "Where the (bleep) is it?!" Finally I grab last year's cleats (a size and a half too small, mind you) and take back off. Praying, law breaking, crying, the whole bit. This time I park on school grounds in a spot very clearly labeled "No Parking." Tow me, I thought, my kid is going to play in this game.

Across the playground, hop the fence, up the hill, run straight past my young son, then past my in-laws, then past the crowd of parents, into the dugout. It's empty. His team is in the outfield. But he has only one shoe, they wouldn't let him play with one shoe! Where is he?

I looked out, and there he was in left field, standing in the ready position, both shoes on. I stood there, jaw open, chest heaving, tiny cleats in hand, dumbfounded.

The coach looked over at me from third base. "Elliott, I found the cleat at practice yesterday! I had it in my car but you ran off so fast you didn't hear me calling you." I must have had some crazy look on my face because he shook his head and laughed. "The things we do for our kids, huh?"

The things we do for our kids. The things we do for our kids. This is all I could think as I walked back to the stands to gather all my stuff, get my son, and guide my in laws to the correct side of the field. I had almost killed myself and who knows how many others, I had prayed more in twenty minutes than I have in two weeks, I ran more than I have run since I was in my early twenties, I was willing to pay a three hundred dollar ticket and spend the afternoon in the car impound trying to spring my honda, and for what? A baseball game?

No, not a baseball game. I did it for my son. My strong, healthy, smart, funny, beautiful son who would likely trade his little brother for a chance to be in the bigs one day. It was his first real little league game and I couldn't have him miss it, not for anything. As I write it seems a little silly, but when I looked in his eyes today and realized something I did could've kept him from something he loved, I would've moved a mountain if that's what it took.

What did my son teach me today? Devotion. He's devoted to his game and I'm devoted to him, in a way I never really understood until today.