PhilYouIn.com

Mike was our first child, and he was just what we wanted. Curly blond hair, beautiful smile which was always on display, funny and well behaved. My problem was I had to figure out a way to teach him how to handle himself once he started school.

I knew how mean kids could be; this was before the age of anti-bullying campaigns and political correctness. I had a friend in grade school who forgot his lines in a play during the performance and began to cry. On stage. Actually wept in front of the entire school. He was treated like a leper for the remainder of his grade school career; whenever I run into an old classmate and his name comes up, we still roll our eyes in disgust.

So rule number one? Never cry in front of other kids. Regardless of the circumstances. Break your arm? Just grimace. Twist your ankle? Say ouch. Get stabbed with a scissors? Get a band-aid. Do NOT draw attention to yourself. Avoid embarrassment at all costs. If tears cannot be helped, mask them. Splash water on your face.

I explained all of this to Mike ad nauseum, but he never gave me the impression that it was sinking in. He was always just…happy. It was an endless source of worry. For me. After all, I thought it was all about me…

In 1992, when Mike was nine years old, his Mom, Wendy, told me she was planning on enrolling him in a local Little League team. I practically fainted.

“What? Are you kidding me?! Don’t you know what could happen? Don’t you know how much pressure he will be under? What happens if he drops the ball? Why are you doing this (to me)?!”

She looked at me like I was out of my mind. “Because he wants to play ball. Are you out of your mind?” I felt like a dummy.

So Mike played ball. He wasn’t all that good, but luckily no one else on his team was particularly good either. He swung the bat at the right time, but except for a couple of hot streaks, rarely made contact.

I weaseled my way into the 3rd base coaching job; I watched each game from my position next to Mike’s dugout, behind 3rd, ever vigilant, waiting to pounce if I detected a verbal put-down cast in his direction from either player or parent. But none came. I stood by, at every game, all wound up; a nervous wreck, waiting for catastrophe to forever scar my boy. My son, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself.

One month into season, the coach decided to move Mike from the outfield to first base. Something brand new for me to be nervous about. What if a grounder gets passed him? What if a runner knocks him down? Calm down, I told myself. He will be fine…

Sure enough, catastrophe struck.

Mike went out to warm the infielders up before the start of an inning. He aligned his feet carefully, left foot on the bag, right foot…while concentrating on his feet, the 3rd baseman unleashed a throw to first. Mike looked up, two seconds too late. The baseball crashed off of his face and bounced into right field.

I gasped. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Mike put both hands up to his face and started to run towards me. Oh My God. Not only was he going to start bawling in front of everyone, he was going to run to daddy for consolation!

That’s it, I thought. I figured I would put my arms around him, spin him around and make a run for the car. We would drive home, pack a few things and drive out of town. No one would recognize us on the west coast. We would be fine there. Poor Mike would never live this down if we stayed. He would be ridiculed for the rest of his days. He would be a mockery. He would…

Suddenly, when he was ten feet from me, Mike made a sharp left turn, into the dugout, his left hand covering his eye. What the hell, I thought. Why is he…

Mike ran from one end of the dugout to the other side; the side where the water fountain was located. He bent his face over it, and pressing down on the silver knob. Cold water shot up, drenching his face, his hair, and his rapidly swelling eye. I could tell he was crying quietly into the water, but no one else could.

After a seemingly endless 90 seconds, he stood straight, turned, and slowly made his way back onto the field.

“You okay?” his coach asked.

“Yup,” he replied, while looking at me, a pained grin on his face.

After three innings the eye was very swollen, and the surrounding area was turning an angry looking shade of blue, so the coach sat him. Mike happily stayed on the bench for the rest of the game, rooting his team on, laughing with the other players.

I turned around and quickly walked off, searching for the nearest water fountain…