There’s No Crying In Baseball!

But in T-Ball…there’s plenty!

Just a week after Bean’s first big hit, he experienced the dark side of T-Ball: Striking out. He was not happy. Not at all.

See, Bean loves to run. The smile on his face as he plows toward first base is one of the greatest sights in the world. When he steps safely on the bag, and the crowd (mostly me) is screaming at the top of their lungs, he knows that he has done well and he is very proud.

But here’s the problem with T-Ball: If you don’t hit the ball, you don’t get to run.

Yesterday, Bean didn’t hit the ball. He missed the first two pitches and flubbed the next two off the T. That’s it. Four tries and you sit back down. Those are the rules, no exceptions. So, instead of running to first like a 45 inch tall Forrest Gump, Daniel was sent back to the dugout…hitless. That’s when the tears started.

He made it off the field okay, but by the time his butt hit the bench his face was red and his eyes were filled with water. Then he started to wail. “Daddy! DADDY!!!” I was already on my way to the dugout to give him a pep talk. I knew he would be upset, but I didn’t expect this. As a ran to find him in the mess of tiny gloves and bats I racked my brain for something to say. I mean, I’ve read like every Tony Robbins book ever written, this should be a piece of cake, right?

As I sat down next to him he climbed up on me and threw his arms and legs tightly around my torso. He clung to me for dear life and buried his face in my shoulder. He was sad and mad and ashamed and frustrated all at the same time. I mean, he’s five for crying out loud. All he wants to do is swing the bat and run around the bases. He didn’t get a hit. He didn’t get to run. The two things he loved most about playing T-Ball were taken away from him with two bad pitches and a couple of foul balls. I didn’t know what to do.

I gave him a big hug and told him it was okay. Then I pulled him off of me. He’s not a baby anymore and we both need to remember that. I put him next to me on the bench and explained how striking out is just part of the game. Sometimes you hit. Sometime you miss. I went on to tell him “It’s okay. Everyone strikes out from time to time. Even Daddy strikes out.” (Or at least Daddy would strike out if he ever played competitive sports.)

I rambled on about working harder and rechanneling his anger and visualization, blah, blah, blah. I don’t really remember what I said, but it must have worked because he stopped crying. He wiped away his tears and took his head off my shoulder. Thank God he was late in the rotation because the inning ended just as I was running out of my “A” motivational material. Coach Charlie came in and yelled, “Grab your gloves! Grab your hats let’s go!”

Bean’s face was still red and he was sniffling a little, but he grabbed his glove. He put his hat square on his head and when coach yelled out, “Daniel, right field let’s go Baby! Go go go!” He got up and went went went! I was super impressed. In fact, I was ecstatic.

I joined PopMommy on the bleachers. She was also a mess. Her stomach was in knots waiting to find out what happened.

“He was upset.” I said. “He was upset he didn’t hit.”

“How are you?” She asked.

“I am THRILLED!” I told her. And I really was! Daniel’s tears meant one thing to me: He cared. It was the first time I ever saw him so passionate about anything that didn’t come in a Lego box.

Karate? Hated it.

Soccer? Couldn’t care less.

But T-Ball??? He loves it. He loves to hit. He loves to run. And he HATES to strike out. That’s a recipe for success if I ever saw one.

The second half of the inning Bean was on fire. You would never have known he was playing right field because he went wherever the ball did. He spent more time on first base than any of the runners. He charged the pitchers mound three times in a row and almost got into a fist-fight with the kid at center. Bean was determined to get his hands on that ball. Then it happened…

He made a play.

One of the big kids nailed a pitch right to first base. The first baseman missed it because it was going so fast. Guess who was right there behind him ready to pick up the slack? Bean scooped the ball up, spun around and threw it to the mound. The pitcher got it and threw his hands in the air ending the play. Bean saved a double and kept the big kid on first. It was AWESOME and he knew it!

When Bean stepped up to the plate for his second (and final) “at bat” of the game my heart was racing. My face was pale…well, paler than usual.

The pitch was good, but Bean swung high. Strike one.

The second pitch was a little slower, but so was Bean. He swung late. Strike two. Out came the T.

As the coach placed the ball on the top of the long black tube I really started to panic. “Please God. Please let him get a hit. Please God just let him hit the ball. The kid just wants to HIT THE BALL! LET HIM HIT THE FREAKING BALL!”

*Clink!*

When I finally looked down from heaven my son was safe at first, smiling from ear to ear.

Two batters later Bean was rounding third and being encouraged (aka: “screamed at”) to head home (Which he did with another big goofy grin on his face). He stopped short of home plate, looked up at the stands, lifted his right leg in the air and stomped on the base like it was a six-inch cockroach crawling through the kitchen (which I’ve actually seen before.) This time he ran to the dugout screaming “Daddy! DADDY! I got a run!” There were high fives everywhere and more hugs.

Two times at bat. One out and one run. My kid’s batting .500! That’s better than Jorge Posada.

If you like this post also read “The Best Game I Ever Saw!”