Dirt

And my Boy kneeling at third, fucking around in the dirt as would any boy or man given the opportunity. He stands. Still looking down and unaware the hit ball bounces sharply toward him. Until he looks up suddenly and it is there. Stops the ball with a combination of hands, cheek, and collar bone. Grabs the ball and turns immediately toward the practice parents, spots me on the periphery at once and bellows with his unique brand of exaggeration, “I’m All right!!!” He makes a good strong throw to his coach. Hears the reassurances of Good Stop, Way to Stick with it, and Good Job, Emerson! His smile is forced. He has been more startled than hurt. His face maybe wants to cry a little. But the camaraderie and reassurances win. He returns to an infielder’s stance. Looks briefly down and then up. I know he wants to draw stories in the dirt. Who wouldn’t? His face doesn’t want to cry anymore. Mostly not.

Sometimes his courage breaks my heart.