Play Ball

The night is cool. The lighted ball field stands out against the darkness, the mercury lights pushing back against the thick black clouds threatening to smother us. I am back on my perch at the end of the metal bleachers. My khaki grey cargo pants and thick hoodie do little to protect me from the army of mosquitoes in the air.

It is Max's last little league game of the season. It is the top of the fifth of six innings and his team is winning eleven to zero. It is almost time for Max to bat. I walk up behind, speaking to him through the chain link fence as he sits on the bench in the dugout.

"Max. Swing at the first three pitches you get."

"No way!"

He either has a fear of the ball or doesn't want to be embarrassed by striking out. He has learned if he's patient he has a fifty-fifty chance of being walked. Once he learned that, he stopped swinging.

I don't push the issue. I return to my seat to watch. He walks.

I don't blame him. When I was around six my older brother and I were playing baseball with some friends at the end of our culdesac. I was playing catcher. My brother says I was hit by the bat. I think I was hit by the ball. Either way I ended up in the emergency room with my father, a big black eye and no desire to ever play the game again.

Imagine my thrill when I found out the ex-wife signed Max up to play-- soccer was so much more fun to watch.