Summer, 2007
My son Devin has baseball pants, white. A color as bright as the summer evening he first put them on. They are also green in the knees, and chocolate brown across both thighs, where after-game ice cream from the Frosty Palace tumbled off the cone and into his lap. I was scrubbing them this morning, and the feel of them in my sudsy hands brought images to mind so clearly that I had to stop and close my eyes. I tried to press the pictures into my memory, to be able to see them, unfaded, forever.
Just exactly this, I realized, is the gift my children give me. The gift of experiencing something to it's fullest, every little aspect of it, over and over for a short period of time, until it becomes a part of you. Over and over rushing between work and a baseball game, then later getting ready to tuck a tired boy into bed and suddenly realizing that sunflower seeds, their salty shells spit into the grass, and a tipsy ice cream cone were, in fact, dinner. Over and over "Mom, where are my cleats? I can't find my mitt!" Over and over holding my breath when he's up to bat, because I know he worries that he's not a good hitter.
I sent a prayer of praise up from the laundry room today for the sudden clarity that helped me understand, at least for a moment, the pure joy these things hold. It's mostly hard to feel that joy in the scramble of it all. But as I tried yet again to concoct a combination of cleaners that will remove grass stains, I could see in my mind sunburned and smiling faces, hear spirited young voices chanting "We are the Pirates, the mighty MIGHTY Pirates," as they stood against the dugout fence cheering on their teammate at bat. I felt the warmth that comes not only from the sun we complain so hotly about, but from the community of parents enthusiastically supporting my son. Like them, I know each player and who he belongs to, and I rejoice in the pop fly caught by the skin of the mitt, the perfect pitch that surprised the pitcher himself, and the runner who's afraid to slide but somehow did it anyway and is safe at home plate.
Marching across my memory is a row of lawn chairs and umbrellas in all the colors of summer. They fortress the base lines, while troops of parents and grandparents share provisions, passing out water bottles, neck coolers, and bug spray. We cheer loudly for our own and also, though not quite so loudly, for the successes of the enemy. This war is not about winning, but about teaching teamwork and sportsmanship. (To be honest, we adults sometimes have to remind ourselves of that. It's good for us to remember.)
The June page on the family calendar is full of baseball—two sons means four games and four practices a week. And two parents juggling two jobs means that Friday (no baseball on blessed Friday) is our favorite word! It seems endless, and then one day your time with it is done. You are left only to smile, a veteran encouraging a new recruit, as you watch those who come after you. I know this because in my mind's image, sent from heaven while I washed baseball pants, I noticed that somewhere along the course of five seasons, life turned my small son, blue ball cap nearly covering his eyes, into a focused young man with freckles who is concerned because he forgot his sunscreen. I find myself feeling blessed that my youngest son also has baseball pants, handed down from his big brother. From today on, I will be thankful for the fleeting opportunity to wash them!
