“You were smiling so big!” my nine-year old son tells me, his own showing as he says.
“I was,” I affirm.
“You were so happy!”
“I was,” I affirm again.
Many times, he repeats the same on our drive home and after, when we are there.
This is what he takes away from his game.
Not that, pitching, he had six strikeouts; not that his team was winning 4-2 when he left the mound; it wasn’t hurt, or disappointment, in the last inning loss after a well-played game by both teams.
What he remembers is my smile—my joy at watching him do well and seeing him in his.
He doesn’t remember the game. In a day, neither will I. Like he of my smile, I will remember his words, his own smile, his pride and joy in happiness for me.
How different would life be if, in moments world calls loss, these were the details we remember and what we take away?
