Jack had a nice baseball game last night. Three good at-bats with hard-hit balls, a great catch of a sinking fly in right to end the game, nearly a force out at a second on a liner hit to him in center. Good game, got praise from the coaches during and after, good to see. All smiles in the post game huddle.
So we were walking back to the car afterward, it was about 10 p.m. The game had started at 8, it was under the lights. I put a hand on his shoulder, stopped him, said, Nice game tonight, Jack.
And he looked at me and said thanks, and then he looked past me.
"Dad!" Yes, I asked. "Look at the moon!"
We both looked up at it. Full, or very nearly. It was a really nice moon.
Looked another minute. Then started walking again.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Saturday, July 02, 2016
When baseball isn't fun
Jack loves baseball, except when he doesn't. That's when he's struggling, which he is right now.
It doesn't take much. A slight change in stance, or swing. Hands too high, bat too low, balance slightly off. And then hits become strikeouts. Line drives go foul. Little things. And then he's struggling, beating himself up about it, falling in the lineup, and pressing even more.
Last night he had a rough night at the plate, and was pretty much despondent in the (winning) huddle. The ball hasn't been finding him in the field, either, so he doesn't feel like he's contributing at all. Quite a change from just a few weeks ago, when he was hitting as well as or better than anyone on the team and catching everything hit into his area code. That's how quickly things can turn.
He got a ride home with Emily after the game, while Kate and I got home a minute or two earlier. They were still in the car after a few minutes, so I went out to find him in tears. They were out a little while longer, then he finally got out, hat jammed down low over his face to obscure how upset he was.
Emily gave me tidbits a little later. "I've been struggling for three years...baseball is my life and I'm not any good at it!" Stuff that breaks your heart.
We went in the back yard and hit pitches into a screen. I'm not sure how much good it did because he was so upset, but I guess he burned off some frustration. Today we'll go out there and practice again, and then he'll play a double header. Get 5-6 more at-bats, hopefully get 2-3 hits, and suddenly the sun will shine a little brighter.
Watching him be so upset and frustrated, lying awake myself feeling bad for him, I wonder if it's worth it. A great talented kid miserable because he's not hitting a baseball as well as he was a month ago. If he gets some hits today, he'll feel great. But he's the same kid either way. He loves baseball, but being a player is just one of the many things he is.
I don't know the answer. He loves it, it's what he wants to do, so we'll keep doing it until he can't anymore. As Emily says, 3 or 5 or 10 years from now, he won't remember the bad stuff. He'll remember the tournaments, running around hotel pools with all his friends, the hits, the wins, and the fun. Not the tears.
We'll remember all of it. I sit here debating it in my mind, and decide that I know it will be worth it. The bad moments, heart-rending as they are, disappear quickly when the great moments come. Those are awesome, as good as I can remember anything being. Seeing him happy, celebrating with his friends, yelling happily from second base, holding up a game ball. As good as it gets. Worth the tough moments along the way. Even if at certain times I'm not so sure.
It doesn't take much. A slight change in stance, or swing. Hands too high, bat too low, balance slightly off. And then hits become strikeouts. Line drives go foul. Little things. And then he's struggling, beating himself up about it, falling in the lineup, and pressing even more.
Last night he had a rough night at the plate, and was pretty much despondent in the (winning) huddle. The ball hasn't been finding him in the field, either, so he doesn't feel like he's contributing at all. Quite a change from just a few weeks ago, when he was hitting as well as or better than anyone on the team and catching everything hit into his area code. That's how quickly things can turn.
He got a ride home with Emily after the game, while Kate and I got home a minute or two earlier. They were still in the car after a few minutes, so I went out to find him in tears. They were out a little while longer, then he finally got out, hat jammed down low over his face to obscure how upset he was.
Emily gave me tidbits a little later. "I've been struggling for three years...baseball is my life and I'm not any good at it!" Stuff that breaks your heart.
We went in the back yard and hit pitches into a screen. I'm not sure how much good it did because he was so upset, but I guess he burned off some frustration. Today we'll go out there and practice again, and then he'll play a double header. Get 5-6 more at-bats, hopefully get 2-3 hits, and suddenly the sun will shine a little brighter.
Watching him be so upset and frustrated, lying awake myself feeling bad for him, I wonder if it's worth it. A great talented kid miserable because he's not hitting a baseball as well as he was a month ago. If he gets some hits today, he'll feel great. But he's the same kid either way. He loves baseball, but being a player is just one of the many things he is.
I don't know the answer. He loves it, it's what he wants to do, so we'll keep doing it until he can't anymore. As Emily says, 3 or 5 or 10 years from now, he won't remember the bad stuff. He'll remember the tournaments, running around hotel pools with all his friends, the hits, the wins, and the fun. Not the tears.
We'll remember all of it. I sit here debating it in my mind, and decide that I know it will be worth it. The bad moments, heart-rending as they are, disappear quickly when the great moments come. Those are awesome, as good as I can remember anything being. Seeing him happy, celebrating with his friends, yelling happily from second base, holding up a game ball. As good as it gets. Worth the tough moments along the way. Even if at certain times I'm not so sure.
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