From the Bleachers
Emerson stands on third waiting for B. to drive him home for the second time in as many games. His voice reaches me in the bleachers above the crowd noise. "Hey Daddy! Look where I am!” He knows he is going to score. Having once felt the sweet slap of cleated foot on home plate, he is ready to repeat it. B. hits a soft grounder toward second. Em takes off like volleyball serve. My dear enthusiastic Boy runs as if he is underwater. But he scores. He finds me in the stands and smiles his million dollar smile.
B.’s father and I are very different men but there is a like there. We are overbearing fathers in different ways. And we obviously love our sons in similar ones. We joke that we are the only parents tracking statistics—if only mentally—of a team of five-year-olds. “Two-for-two with an RBI and two runs scored,” we grin. But our joke is ringed with pride—deadly sin be damned.
There is a thing about seeing one’s son standing at home plate—either with bat in hand or having just plodded across to score—that helps outline the indefinable.
Watching him, it occurs to me that wherever Emerson is he will always be home.
Or well on his way.
B.’s father and I are very different men but there is a like there. We are overbearing fathers in different ways. And we obviously love our sons in similar ones. We joke that we are the only parents tracking statistics—if only mentally—of a team of five-year-olds. “Two-for-two with an RBI and two runs scored,” we grin. But our joke is ringed with pride—deadly sin be damned.
There is a thing about seeing one’s son standing at home plate—either with bat in hand or having just plodded across to score—that helps outline the indefinable.
Watching him, it occurs to me that wherever Emerson is he will always be home.
Or well on his way.
posted by Ryan at 9:14 AM
2 Comments:
T-ball statistics aren't too hard to track. Everything's a hit and, by God, they better score. Now once he gets older it gets tougher. As a parent you have to make a decision if your son should be credited with a hit, even though the second baseman kicked the ball around for an hour. Even worse, do you celebrate when the centerfielder drops a ball and your boy races around the bags for a "home run." Moms always score this a single with a three-base error. Dads count it as a blast over the straightway centerfield wall.
"I’ll draw my own comfort with crayons if need be" Beautiful!
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