Sunday night baseball
Our bellies are full. The pork was pretty dry, as twelve years in and meat is still hit or miss for me. But the potatoes, the ones we dug up on Saturday night, were perfection.
With kitchen clean-ish, we head outside. Trey with equipment in hand, as always. He starts out on his own, hitting one single ball off a tee, commentating his own game. Aden is pounding the dirt with is golf club and telling himself a story. Daddy is strumming chords on the porch. Mama is watering red, yellow, and white potted flowers, amazed that they have stayed alive all summer.
Even with the sun quickly disappearing behind the tree line, it's hot out. Summer-hot, and not too sticky. But our glowing skin has soaked up sunlight all day at the pool, so the hint of a cool breeze feels amazing.
Then the call comes.
"Mama, will you pitch to me?"
"Sure, babe."
I'm not a pitcher, but it's good enough for Trey. One by one he zings them overhead and across the front yard. Always between first and second. He bats lefty.
With only one out in the top of the first, he's scored four runs.
Daddy huffs, walks over, and removes the ball from my hand. I'm being replaced, demoted to catcher.
Trey struggles a bit to hit Daddy's fastballs. I'm not a catcher, either, and after having to turn around and chase so many, Trey tells me to "just stay back there".
Three outs. It's Daddy's turn to bat. Aden quickly joins the game, decides he wants to bat, and butts in front of Daddy.
I pitch to him. Maybe he's less picky about his pitchers. I don't know, but he doesn't make fun of me. I kneel close to him and pitch slowly, overhand. He hikes his knee up to the top of his head and line drives it right beside my face.
I back up a bit.
After Aden has hit a few and then run through every base and attempt to get him out, he crosses home plate with arms raised.
Now it's really Daddy's turn. And I have no choice but to pitch. He chooses to bat left-handed for now. I know the risks. After all, many of our dating years were spent with me sitting on the sideline of a grown-up men's slow-pitch softball field.
I back up more, lots more.
The pitch. Pop! Thud! Where the thud would be a wiffle ball going approximately 450 miles per hour crashing into my shin. It's just a wiffle ball, you say. It stung, baby. And left a two-inch bruise. And the ball was crushed into itself. Like, it looked like half a ball.
Yeah.
My husband laughs at me. My two sons laugh at me.
I am in no way surprised. They're boys.
So I back up as far as I can, which makes the already-poor pitching go downhill fast. Daddy still manages to hit a few impressive pop flies for Trey, some of them going all the way into the garden.
Poor Trey shouting, "I got it! I got it!", spinning around, stepping back and forth, to have the ball land five feet away from him. Aden congratulating his Daddy on such manly hitting, while running bases at random.
It's getting dark, and late-ish for the school-year bedtime schedule we're trying so hard to enforce. After Trey falls apart over having to stop the game, walking around the house several times to calm down, and after a few more minutes enjoying each other and Daddy's music on the porch, we head inside.
It's how we do baseball. And time together.
And even when it leaves marks on your body, it's a whisper of love from God.
Blessed beyond measure, indeed.
With kitchen clean-ish, we head outside. Trey with equipment in hand, as always. He starts out on his own, hitting one single ball off a tee, commentating his own game. Aden is pounding the dirt with is golf club and telling himself a story. Daddy is strumming chords on the porch. Mama is watering red, yellow, and white potted flowers, amazed that they have stayed alive all summer.
Even with the sun quickly disappearing behind the tree line, it's hot out. Summer-hot, and not too sticky. But our glowing skin has soaked up sunlight all day at the pool, so the hint of a cool breeze feels amazing.
Then the call comes.
"Mama, will you pitch to me?"
"Sure, babe."
I'm not a pitcher, but it's good enough for Trey. One by one he zings them overhead and across the front yard. Always between first and second. He bats lefty.
With only one out in the top of the first, he's scored four runs.
Daddy huffs, walks over, and removes the ball from my hand. I'm being replaced, demoted to catcher.
Trey struggles a bit to hit Daddy's fastballs. I'm not a catcher, either, and after having to turn around and chase so many, Trey tells me to "just stay back there".
Three outs. It's Daddy's turn to bat. Aden quickly joins the game, decides he wants to bat, and butts in front of Daddy.
I pitch to him. Maybe he's less picky about his pitchers. I don't know, but he doesn't make fun of me. I kneel close to him and pitch slowly, overhand. He hikes his knee up to the top of his head and line drives it right beside my face.
I back up a bit.
After Aden has hit a few and then run through every base and attempt to get him out, he crosses home plate with arms raised.
Now it's really Daddy's turn. And I have no choice but to pitch. He chooses to bat left-handed for now. I know the risks. After all, many of our dating years were spent with me sitting on the sideline of a grown-up men's slow-pitch softball field.
I back up more, lots more.
The pitch. Pop! Thud! Where the thud would be a wiffle ball going approximately 450 miles per hour crashing into my shin. It's just a wiffle ball, you say. It stung, baby. And left a two-inch bruise. And the ball was crushed into itself. Like, it looked like half a ball.
Yeah.
My husband laughs at me. My two sons laugh at me.
I am in no way surprised. They're boys.
So I back up as far as I can, which makes the already-poor pitching go downhill fast. Daddy still manages to hit a few impressive pop flies for Trey, some of them going all the way into the garden.
Poor Trey shouting, "I got it! I got it!", spinning around, stepping back and forth, to have the ball land five feet away from him. Aden congratulating his Daddy on such manly hitting, while running bases at random.
It's getting dark, and late-ish for the school-year bedtime schedule we're trying so hard to enforce. After Trey falls apart over having to stop the game, walking around the house several times to calm down, and after a few more minutes enjoying each other and Daddy's music on the porch, we head inside.
It's how we do baseball. And time together.
And even when it leaves marks on your body, it's a whisper of love from God.
Blessed beyond measure, indeed.
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