(I know, I know, I sound like one of those moms.)
He didn’t dance enough, this time. After hearing that sickening “thunk” of speeding baseball against bone, I heard his teammates yelling, “Yea, Jon! Way to take it for the team!”
Getting hit means a free limp to first base.
Getting to first base means he can steal his way to third and most likely be hit home.
Yea, we baseball parents encourage stealing – only bases, though.
Then, occasionally, you have that Perfect Baseball Day.
The sun is shining, your team is winning, and you have enough change in your pocket to buy one of those all beef-nitrite/nitrate free hot dogs. (We’re in WA, remember.)
As I lean over the fence towards third base, the wires gouging little marks into my underarm, I’m feeling the warmth of the evening sun and enjoying the all-American moment.
It is the stuff memories are made of.
I am in the presence of baseball.
I called my husband in the stands with my cell phone and had daughter, Bethany, bring my second camera over to capture this photo. Just in case, in my old age, I forget that
it didn’t rain during a game.
Just once, I’m feeling,
“I don’t care if I never get back…”
cuz I’m at my son’s
“Old ball game.”