Confessions of a Baseball Mom

Nick, today this picture stole into my Facebook feed. It was taken three years ago when you were seven. I called it "Slugger". Today this picture made me cry.

Every year I look forward to spring. Warm weather, sunshine, green grass, flowers, and baseball. I love baseball. I played softball when I was 11 and 12 and while I wasn't very good at it, I still loved getting up to the plate and wondering if this would be the home run that I had been waiting for. My grandfather loved baseball and I have fond memories of sipping root beer floats and watching the Detroit Tigers play the Chicago White Sox and the Boston Red Sox (but never the Blue Sox that my younger brother always wondered about).

Some people think baseball is boring, but I think there is something quite peaceful about sitting in the stands and waiting to hear the crack of the bat or the thump of ball in mitt. It's a good thing I think this way because you need to have lots of patience and peace to be a baseball mom.

I call myself a baseball mom because for the last 5 years I have sat in the sun, the wind, the rain, and yes, even the snow through your countless (and sometimes everlasting) games and practices. I have been score keeper and snack bringer. And I love it. I look forward to baseball season, to playing catch with you, to see how you have gotten stronger over the winter. New cleats, new uniform, new team, new coach. A fresh start.

It all started way before you were old enough for t-ball. You had the love of the game from birth, it seemed. "Ball" was your first word and you had an obsession with any kind you could throw. So it seemed natural to encourage your passion. You would drag me outside as soon as all the snow melted (and sometimes even before) so that we could play catch or practice batting. We soon graduated from plastic bats and whiffle balls to tennis balls and foam bats. We bought plastic baseballs and a batting tee and an electronic pitching machine (to give my arm a rest). When you were consistently hitting every pitch I threw and hitting it way over my head, we came to see that you had talent. And the left arm on you, wow! Leftie pitchers are in high demand. Your dream was to be a major league baseball player and so we dreamed along with you.

When you were old enough we enrolled you in t-ball. Now t-ball is not the most exciting sport, although it is pretty entertaining. When you started an armpit fart mutiny in the outfield you cracked everyone up. Then came coach pitch. This was a huge step up. Now instead of being stationary, the ball came whizzing right at you. For a first grader that's a little scary. And when you were playing catcher and the ball hit you in the chest plate, well you didn't want to play anymore. But you had great coaches and they talked you into participating at the end of the game. Who got the game ball that night? You did, because you showed perseverance for getting back into the game. That ball meant so much to you - you slept with it that night.

That first year in machine pitch baseball you were unstoppable. You started out that year with a concussion, then got hit with the ball playing catcher, then ended up with strep throat. You had every reason to want to quit but we kept taking you to practice anyway. You grumbled and cried and sometimes didn't participate, but we kept on going and your coaches kept on teaching and encouraging you.

And do you know what happened? You started fielding balls instead of letting them roll through your legs. You started really connecting with the ball and hitting doubles consistently. Soon the coaches and players were calling you Slugger and you had earned a special spot in the lineup - they placed you 4th or 5th down the line (after several big hitters who were older than you) so you could send everyone home.

Oh we were so proud of you, and if you look back at the pictures from that year, you can see that you were proud of you too. You can see the confidence in the way you stood on 3rd base ready to run home, and in the smiles on your face, and in the way you were encouraging the other players. Remember how good you felt when Kenny FINALLY got a hit? The whole team cheered for him.

That is what being on a team is about.

Did you always want to play? With me or Dad or Uncle Jon - yes. As an organized sport? No. Registration for the league begins in March, when we are still stuck in snowdrifts, snow pants, and boots. You became legendary for deciding that you wanted to play ball as soon as registration had closed. Then we scrambled to get you a place in the league. Still, during the season there were many times I had to drag you to practice or wipe the sleepies out of your eyes before a Monday evening game. And at the end of the season you were always counting down the practices to when it would be over.

The Christmas before last season you asked for catcher's gear. The full Monty - mask, chest protector, shin guards, and glove. You had been so adamant about never wanting to play catcher ever since you had gotten hit in the chest that this took us by surprise. But who are we to stop any sort of interest in baseball, so we were all glad when Santa came through that year.

Last season you moved up to kid pitch, where the pitches came in on target, off target, slow, fast, SCARY. We saw a lot of kids get hit, but nothing serious. I could tell you were afraid, but you sucked in that fear and showed everyone what you were made of. When you could get a good pitch you hit well, and were soon getting back your nickname of Slugger. You made good use out of your catcher's gear and even worked through a few hits in the chest.

But then one sunny eve you were up to bat and a wild fast pitch smacked you hard in the upper thigh. You went down immediately. You hobbled off the field and put ice on the injury. It left a nice bruise and you could almost see the stitch marks from the ball on the skin, but you recovered and went on to finish the rest of the season. Despite the setbacks, you played a lot of ball at home throughout the summer, improving on hitting and catching and throwing.

I guess I didn't realize the bruise had bled through to your soul, though, because we were surprised when you proclaimed in January that you weren't going to play baseball this year.

"I'm just not that into it anymore," you said. You took down the life-size poster of Miguel Cabrera from your door and packed your equipment away.

"But Nick," Dad and I protested, "you love baseball! Don't you want to be a major league player anymore?"

"No, baseball is boring," you said. Everything was boring - it's your stock phrase of the year. "And I want to be a DJ now."

We were sad to hear you talk like this but hoped that maybe it was just the pattern, that you would come out of it once baseball season rolled around. We enrolled you in basketball, a new sport that you wanted to play, and while you liked it at the beginning, by the end you were frustrated. You never got the ball, no one ever passed to you, and you felt the coach never gave you a chance.

You became even more emphatic about not playing baseball after that. You didn't want to play any organized sports, just wanted to play at home or ride your skateboard or scooter. Any time someone would bring up the subject you would get very angry.

Dad and I struggled with what to do. Each year we had seen players on your baseball team who were miserable because they were forced into playing. There was no enjoyment for parents or children - just an immense power struggle. I had said to myself time and time again that I would never be that parent. We wanted you to be involved in something but didn't want to force you into it. After all, you're only 10. While there are a lot of benefits to playing on a team - learning how to work with others, being part of something greater than yourself, and learning how to play the game - I also knew that you had been playing ball on a team since you were 5 - what if you just needed a break? 

With each talk we had with you we could see that the passion just wasn't there anymore. For whatever reasons - fear of the ball, fear of the coach, etc. - the thrill was gone, as the late, great B.B. King said.  

I talked with other parents whose kids were gearing up for soccer or baseball. I asked what they would do if they were in my shoes. Many told me they didn't even give their kids a choice. Bottom line - their kids had to be involved in something, no matter what.

I have to admit, this left me a little unsettled and I began to wonder, what's so bad about not being involved? What would happen if we just gave you a little space? Maybe after missing a season you would find the joy and passion you once felt about playing baseball.

Then I had an epiphany. Nick, you've had a lot of positive years in baseball. But maybe you don't remember it that way. Maybe you only remember the strikeouts and being hit with the ball and missed plays. Maybe you only remember cold practices and being yelled at by your coach for making a mistake. Maybe those experiences have eclipsed the times you hit a double and scored two runs, or the time you made your first out of the season, or the way you got the team to rally by turning your caps inside out.

Sometimes we forget our successes in life and instead focus on all the times we fail. We forget about all the fun and good times we had and instead only remember the pain. It's the way we've developed - a protection so we don't get hurt the next time

Maybe that was what was preventing you from wanting to play baseball. And something inside me realized that you needed some time to remember the good stuff again. So Spring arrived and your gear stayed packed away. Your decision to not play was final and even though Dad and I were sad, we respected your wishes.

We have moved on in our Spring without baseball and I don't regret our decision. You get plenty of exercise and fresh air in other ways besides being on the field. And we spend time together in other ways besides playing catch in the front yard.

So why did I cry when I saw this picture today? Today is one of those perfect spring days - the sky is blue, the birds are singing, the green grass is sprinkled with dew. It is a perfect day for sitting on the sidelines and cheering for your favorite little league player, and it's days like today when I really REALLY miss being a baseball mom.

It is up to you to determine if and when you will play baseball again, but it is my job to tell you as your mom that no matter what you do, I am proud of you and will always be there cheering you on, your biggest fan.

Love Mom,