Field of dreams

I work for a large and fairly complex organization, so I'm used to occasionally missing a directive and having to run to catch up. I did not think the same would hold true for coaching tee ball. Sadly, I was mistaken.

Apparently, we were supposed to introduce pitching to the kids at some point a few weeks back. I did not, as they say, get the memo. So we started during our last game. Which is great, as some of the kids (mine included) are used to being pitched to by their parents anyway and find the tee a little confusing.

Mind you, it also puts a lot more pressure on the coach not to strike out the side. We do three pitches and then switch to the tee. The kids don't seem to mind, but it's killing me to look into all those little smiling faces as they stand waiting for the pitch --- feet apart, hands together, back elbow up, eye on the ball --- and either swing late/early/above/below or, worse yet, get an unhittable pitch from me or the other coach.

Of course it is only tee ball, and they are only four and five years old, but as I stood on the mound looking at my son's shining face --- watching him dig in and take his practice cuts [he's nothing if not an expert mimic of what he sees on TV, right down to the batting gloves] --- I could feel the entire universe contract for a second so that there was only a narrow corridor of light by which to see and the rest faded away.

A slight breeze crossed the infield, and I could smell someone's newly cut lawn, somebody's flowering dogwood tree. I asked him: "ready?" and he nodded, tongue out, feet scuffing the dirt slightly.

I threw an arcing underhand pitch that seemed to float on the mid-May air, spinning slowly toward him. His eyes narrowed as his hands gripped the bat a little tighter. Moving his left foot up, he brought the too-heavy bat forward with a nice level swing, and I watched the ball slip just half an inch under the barrel of the bat.

The next two pitches didn't go any better, and we switched to the tee, from which he promptly hit a nice bouncer between the four infielders standing between first and second base [I did mention this was tee ball, right?].

There's no moral to this story, and I remain resolutely against vicarious living through my son. Or at least I'm trying to remain resolutely against it. But man, there are times when it feels like the whole world hangs on hearing the ping of the bat.


Crack of the bat would be cooler, I know, but we use aluminum, so it's more of a ping or a clang. Possibly a ding...