A ballgame to remember

Even though we only have one official ball player at our house this summer, we have uniforms for two. Whatever big brother does, Brisco is never far behind, so each game day begins well in advance with the donning of the official Sentinel Red garb right down to the thick, heavy red leggings pulled straight to the top of the thigh. As we prepared to go to the ball field last Tuesday night, I suppose it was a good thing to be found dressed out in full uniform because for Brisco, it would be a ball game to remember.

As our eldest’s game was set to begin, a “scout” approached from the other ball field. Seems the Sentinel White coach pitch team had a few players missing and was looking for a couple of fill-ins. Before considering the consequences, I opened my mouth and said, “Brisco would probably play.”

The scout agreed to let him try, but Brisco wasn’t so sure. He considered it for a moment but declined. I suppose after I told him I’d go over with him, he decided it might not be so bad, so we trekked over to the other ball field and off he went. Like an old pro, with an entourage of six or seven pretty girls to cheer him on.

Now at this particular moment in time, two things were going through my head: 1. He’s gonna last about 10 minutes before walking off the field, declaring “I’m done”; and 2. How am I going to watch two kids play two different ball games at the same time?

The former is a trait that is probably true of most three year olds in general. It just wasn’t an issue for his older brother-ever. At least not where baseball is concerned. But to my surprise, Brisco jumped right out into left field-where he spends most of his time anyway-and had himself a ball.

He fielded several hits and made a few great throws. One time he even threw to one of the coaches standing near third when he saw the runner at second trying to advance. I had to be sure and let him know that in a real game, the grown ups aren’t allowed to play.

The spectacle of the night, at least for his parents, came at the plate. In coach pitch, they’re allowed five pitches. Balls or strikes, it doesn’t matter where they land, five pitches it is. So there he stood, all 35 inches of him, armed at the plate with a bat that’s almost as long as he is tall. He banged the bat on the plate. Dust flew about, and he reared back into his stance. Then came the pitch.

He struck out his first at bat, but the second time up, he just had that look in his eye. That “Brisco” look that only he has. That determination, all-business, get-outa-my-way look that says he’s hittin this ball so you better get ready. He swung at the first two, but let the third pitch go by. Turning to face the backstop-and his mother-he yelled, “That one was too high! It was a ball!” I reminded him he would only get two more pitches, and as he struck at the fourth, I couldn’t help but think to myself how small he looked up there. So small, and yet, (if you ask him) so big!

Here it was-the final pitch. Could the little man do it? The ball came sailing in. He swung, and with all his might, he hit a high fly just behind the infielders at second and short. He dropped that bat and ran to first as fast as his little legs would take him. I was yelling like a moron, and I guess everyone else in the park was doing the same--even the mothers on the other team. And…Yes! He was safe!

I’d like to say I didn’t get all sappy and teary, but any mom who’s ever witnessed one of her kid’s “firsts” knows that it isn’t true. I welled up, like always, with that purest of Mommy pride that only comes when one of my two boys gets it right.

I’d like to say I was most proud of the way he ran through the base at first, as fast as those two stubby legs would take him; or of the fact that when he got thrown out at second, the coach on the other team couldn’t bear to make him go to the dugout; or of the way he took his “giant” lead off second, even though they aren’t allowed to lead off in coach pitch.

But really I’m no different than the most relentless of the Babe Ruth or Hammerin’ Hank fans-I’m a sucker for the long ball. And, so, it seems, is my boy, because as he recounted to his fan club his first official hit, all he had to say was this: “I hit it so high it almost touched the sky!”

I have no idea the kind of fun we are in for or what the future holds for our boys and baseball. They love it like a long lost brother and a big bowl of ice cream all rolled into one. It’s the last thing they think about at night and the first thing they beg to do in the morning. No amount of playing catch in the yard or taking grounders on the field can seem to quench their undying thirst for this game.

So as we took off our cleats and hung up our hat, this night of swinging metal and popping leather came to a close. Tonight, chasing balls and running bases became more than something designed for “Daddy’s boys” or Cooper’s friends. Tonight, the game of baseball came alive for Brisco Berra. For him-and for us-it was definitely a ballgame to remember.

And that’s All in a day’s work!