There's No Crying In Baseball

Diminutive One got his big break last night.

The coach put him on the mound in the third inning. The score was 5 to 4 in our favor. When he took the mound, he was smiling and exuded confidence. But I knew better. As he warmed up I winced at his stiffness, the slow deliberation as he went through his warmup, the mechanical motions that should have been so fluid and effortless. He was terribly, terribly nervous.

When the inning was over, the score was 9-4 their favor. Diminutive One was absolutely destroyed. He had walked in four runs, and not struck out even one batter. Nobody expected him to, of course. It was his first time on the mound, and frankly, I was impressed that he got up there at all and that he didn't bean anyone.

The first time Pre-Pubescent one came up to bat in kid pitch, he got nailed in the ribs by a wild pitch that resulted in a bruise from armpit to hipbone. I feared his ribs might be broken, but I guess the kid who hit him wasn't any stronger than he was accurate. The first time Pre-Pubescent got on the mound, he hit three batters square in the noggin. At least he was consistent.

So really, all things considered, Diminutive One did very well. But he didn't see it that way. He compares himself to his brother, who has been pitching for five years, and older, more experienced pitchers in his own league.

The coach finally pulled him and as he left the mound, his shoulders slumped in dejection. He dragged his feet and shuffled into the dugout. He was near tears, but I knew his pride would not allow him to cry in front of his teammates. Everybody knows there's no crying in baseball.

The coaches and his teammates were amazingly kind and positive, (except for one kid, but he's the worst player on the team so I don't know where he gets off) but he didn't want to hear it. He was mired in misery and nothing could pull him from the sucking black mud of his shame.

I wanted to hug him until he felt better. But of course I couldn't. Nobody wants their MOM in the dugout, much less to have their Mom in the dugout coddling them like a baby. I started to go over and offer words of encouragement, but Husband caught my eye and shook his head. My words, no matter how well intentioned, would not be appreciated or recieved with grace. He was right. So I sat back down and worried quietly in my camp chair.

For the rest of the game, Diminutive One was inconsolable. He asked the coach if he could sit on the bench so he wouldn't mess up anymore.

Diminutive One's way of dealing with embarassment is to become irascible and surly. This is to demonstrate that he doesn't care, when in fact, he cares very much.

He was positioned at third base, but refused to field the ball. My heartbreak for him turned to anger and embarassment. I'm never embarassed or angry when my kids perfrom poorly, whatever the endeavor as long as I know they were giving it their best effort. I am and angry embarassed when they don't try. I am embarassed and angry when they sulk. I am embarassed and angry when they just give up.

He's such a complicated kid. Sometimes I just don't know what to make of him. And sometimes it's hard for me to resist the siren song of "What is wrong with him?"

You would think, after pitching poorly, that he would go out there and do his very best, wouldn't you? Wouldn't that be the reasonable thing to do? To prove that though you might have screwed up, you're still willing to give it your all and be an assett to the team??

You would think. Wouldn't you? But you would be wrong.

When he got home, he went straight to bed without showering or speaking to any of us. When I went up to tuck him in, he was turned to the wall with the covers pulled over his head. He hasn't looked small to me for some time, but he looked small then. I heard the tinny strains of music as they escaped from the ear buds poked into his ears.

I stood there, deliberating. I wanted to tell him I was proud and disappointed and confused. But his coach and Husband both had already talked to him about his behavior. Anything further would be adding insult to injury.

I leaned over and kissed the top of his head. I pulled one ear bud from his ear and said, "I'm proud of you. And I love you."

He rolled over and reached out his arms the way he had when he was small. As I hugged him, he began to sob quietly.

There's no crying in baseball. But apparently, it's okay if you're in your own bed with your Mom's arms around you.

I think that goes for Moms too. It's okay to cry if your arms are wrapped around a quietly sobbing 9 year old who smells of glove leather, ballfield dirt and Gatorade.

Thank goodness.