I didn’t think I’d cry—but I did; one of those when eyes warm and you feel them there and dab with sleeve before they run, not continuous, but there for a time when emotion comes and needs a place to go.
Top of the second inning played right as I made it to the field. An hour from home, I got there when I could, thinking and seeing no need to rush as it rained the whole drive to; but the field was turf and we were told they would play no matter what. Furthermore, on reaching field, I found a a bubble-window of rainlessness as rest of the countryside seemed covered—micro-miracle of a kind.
Last out of the top of the inning, I made note of who was at bat and where my son might be in the upcoming order. His team hustled onto the field. I watched them run, looking at the faces, third game of the season in, I am still learning to recognize with numbers, names, and positions.
I looked to first. My son was there.
That’s when eyes went warm.
It was his first game playing on his middle school’s A-Team in the field. This is his second year for the team, and I know what it means to him.
I know how he’s worked. I know how he cares. I know his hopes, his disappointments, and the way he and I have both kept working—”next play, next pitch, don’t complain…get better”—and he has.
I walked beside the dugout to watch him warming up and throwing ground balls to the infield between innings. Wild throw that skips by, he turned around and saw me there. His smile meets my own and still-warm eyes though the wave of blotted tears have passed.
He jokes that he missed the ball because I was taking pictures—nothing good ever seems to happen in a game when I’m focused on taking a picture more than experiencing the moment (and maybe it’s the same with life in general—when documenting and showing to others supersedes intimate of living present that only comes in full-presence and being in a moment).
I put the phone away. I take no more pictures and simply watch him, proud for his moment that means something to us both.
They lose the game, but that doesn’t matter as much as I once thought it did. He is happy. He is improving. He is surrounded with and making memories with friends that are a team. These times, just being—enjoying and loving the game as a game and friends as friends—will be remembered far more than any score or season record. This, at least, is how it’s lived for me.
After the game, I tell him that I love him. I affirm the plays he made. He speaks to where he can improve, and we agree to keep working on these too. “Next play, next pitch, don’t complain—get better.”
I know he will, but I didn’t think about that then. Right then, I was only happy—happy and proud—for him, for moment, and his earning of place upon the field.