Secrets

Lately, I find myself day dreaming about a simpler life, when we had confidence in our leaders and believed they would keep us safe so we could concentrate on important family matters.  Like Saturday afternoon movies and Brownies, piano lessons and skating events, gymnastics and hockey, homework, birthday parties and Little League tryouts.

When Ben was eight, he practiced in the backyard for weeks in hopes of making a team. Having seen his wild throws and fumbled catches, I didn't think he'd be picked to play on a team but said nothing, hoping for a miracle.  We arrived at the baseball field early but I was told, along with several other nervous mothers, to 'vacate the premises' until noon.  Prepared for a rough afternoon, I returned to find Ben part of the Optimist team, managed by two brothers who valued heart above skill. I had the great pleasure of seeing them practice that belief many times, but here's one of my favorite stories about that time so many years ago.

Secrets

The mothers of both little league teams crowd the single set of bleachers, as duty propels us into position.  A few fathers are sprinkled among us.  Ben rolls to his spot on the catcher’s mound, adjusts his shield, spits and squats.  My heart leaps to its assigned spot in my throat where it lodges at the beginning of every game.  Balls are pitched high, low, in the bleachers, to the parking lot.  Ben catches one in four.  I search his face for concern, stress or joy.  I find a blank stare.  A foul ball lands in Ben’s glove and the batter is out, ending the inning.  Everyone cheers.  

Ben kicks the corner of the plate on his way to the dugout, tossing the ball to his coach who stands nearby, arms folded across his chest.  “Optimist” is painted on this man’s shirt and baseball cap, matching the team uniforms, but I think “Stoic” would be a better name.  Ben saunters to home base, bat in hand and lets the first pitch pass by.  The bleacher crowd shouts “good eye” even though the ball was clearly above his head.  Three more pitches and he walks to first base.  At the end of the third inning, our team leads three to nothing for the first time this season.  

But by the beginning of the seventh and last inning, the score is tied three all. Our team is in the field.  Two outs, bases loaded.  My back, bottom and shoulders ache. Sarah and Becky return to the bleachers with cold drinks.  We are all sweaty and share a universal wish for the game to end any way it can.  Ben crouches at home plate and points two, no three fingers towards the ground in front of his crotch.  Jim, the pitcher, gives the famous “Optimist” blank stare and throws.  

The sixth batter walks to first base.  Now the ninth.  Our team is behind by four runs.  Jim’s left arm hangs next to his body, a limp tool, and he looks as if he is about to cry.   His mother, seated next to me, is taking deep breaths. The coach walks to the pitchers mound and motions the infield players to join him.  We watch the group form a circle, arms around each other’s backs.  I tell Jim’s mom, “The coach will send in another pitcher.  Don’t worry.” and pat her arm.  She closes her eyes and holds up her hands, fingers crossed. 

We hold our collective breath.  Within minutes everyone returns to his place smiling, including Jim.  Now he is laughing as he winds up for another pitch. I stare at his mouth, amazed at the transformation I have witnessed.  The next pitch is miraculously a strike.  Two more follow and now our team is at bat.  Within fifteen minutes the inning, and the game, has ended, 7-3, our loss.  But I don’t care.  All I want to know is what the coach said that made a devastated pitcher smile and finish the game.

Ben saunters over, oblivious to the bleacher crowd.

“You played well, Ben.  Caught that out on the fly.  Way to go.”  I smile and pat him on the back.

“Yeah.”  Ben glances around as if he has lost something. His arms are folded across his chest, Optimist style. 

“I was wondering, you know, right before the end of the game, when the coach called a huddle, remember?  I was just wondering what he said to you.” I try to sound casual, but there's an intensity in my voice I can't hide.

“Huh?  I dunno.”

I kneel down, put my hands on Ben’s shoulders, and stare into his face.  “Right at the end, when all those guys were getting walked and then Jim went back to pitching and you were all smiling and laughing.  How did the Coach do that?  What did he say to you?”

Ben puffs out his lips, wrinkles his forehead and says, “I dunno.  I don’t remember.  Mom, can I get an ice cream at the stand?” 

Ben, the girls and I walk towards the musical jingle passing by slowly and select our favorite good humor bars.  I make a mental note to myself to call the coach later that night.  But I am busy cooking and bathing children and forget to make the call.  The next day I realize I don’t have the coach’s work number. The next game is rained out.  Ben misses a practice.  His younger sisters have chicken pox and I miss one week worth of games and practices. We take a trip to California and the season ends. 

Months later I place this mystery alongside others I will never solve, next to experiences that belong exclusively to my children.