Mar 29

Mar 29 Slice of Life: Mourning His Final Season #SOL21

Hey, can you mail me my baseball stuff? I’m going to play club.

I see it sitting in the corner of his room. It is still packed, every piece of equipment exactly as it should be. His glove set aside in its own space. A throne created to protect it, to preserve the years of breaking it in, conditioning, softening and shaping it to perfectly nestle the ball. It sits mourning its final season.

When I think back to last spring and all the events people worried about, argued over and complained about, none of it mattered to me. Would it be a parade or virtual? Would there be a prom or some gathering the next year? What should the lawn signs look like? I moved through the motions celebrating as expected. But honestly, I didn’t care about the ceremonies or events. I could have done without the pomp and circumstance. For me, the hardest part was knowing I wouldn’t be in the stands for his final season.

I wouldn’t see him take his last at bat, watching him go through his pre-swing rituals.

I wouldn’t see him mentally preparing in the field, watching his feet move swiftly side to side, ready to spring into action.

I wouldn’t see the twinkle in his eye right before he decides to steal a base.

I wouldn’t see the cloud of dust settle around him as the umpire yells …. Safe!

I wouldn’t see the look of determination on his face anticipating where to position himself to catch the ball.

I wouldn’t see him brush off an error and get his head back in the game.

I wouldn’t see him cheer on his teammates.

I wouldn’t see him celebrate victories and feel the disappointment of defeat.

I wouldn’t see him look up at me in the stands, asking, “Did you see that?”

I wouldn’t hear him replay the game over dinner, every call, every mistake, every play.

I wouldn’t see him in the yard practicing late into the evening, working to get it just right.

I wouldn’t see him laughing and goofing with his teammates

I wouldn’t see him doing what he loves, what he worked for, for his final season.

The feel of the cold metal under me and the ache of my lower back unsupported by the bleachers. The freezing cold, wet or scorching hot air to be endured until the final out is called. The endless laundry and bleaching to get those white pants ready for the next game. The Gatorade runs, sunflower seeds, and cooler packed with snacks. Weekends spent at tournaments. Early morning drives to fields in the middle of nowhere. Practices that went longer than expected and games with extra innings. When I look back at this past year, missing his final season is what hurts most of all.

Do you want to add insurance? What’s the value of the package?

I look at the FedEx server realizing he has no idea why his question brings tears to my eyes.

Priceless, is all I can mutter.