My eight year old son has, undeniably, struggled with everything he has ever tackled. Nowhere has this been more evident than in the sports arena.
We tried soccer, but he was only about the size of a three year old at the time. A 35 pound kid with a heart defect and reflux does not a soccer star make. When the coach would put him in, he would simply run across the field to where we were sitting and ask, “Can we leave now?”
Last year we tried t-ball. He liked it. Mostly, he enjoyed the free snow cone at the concession stand after the games and watching the trains that run on the tracks behind the field, but whatever. Progress is progress, people.
Now that he has reached the soaring height of a four year old he has moved on to coach-pitch baseball. This seems to be an ideal sport for him. There isn’t too much running and sometimes there is bubble-gum in the dugout.
However, that doesn’t mean it has been easy. Although he has a great swing he only had two hits in the first two games.
But last night he hit the ball every time he was at bat. He even had a double. Okay, it was a single with an overthrown ball so he was allowed to advance to second, but again…whatever.
During that inning, he scored his first run. The parents from our team were cheering so much when he reached home plate that he was positively beaming with pride. He waved at everyone as if we were his adoring fans and, at one point, I thought he was actually going to bow.
After the game, one of those parents congratulated him by saying, “Hey, buddy! You played great tonight!”
Then we realized that even modesty comes hard for him when he replied, “I know.”