Only A Game

With the tension mounting in the smoldering heat, we were tied as we started the eleventh inning of the championship game. My 15 yr old son was on the mound. I felt a wave of nausea come over me as I squirmed on the bleacher.
I took a fleeting moment to search my son's face for some kind of expression, some indication of what he was thinking or feeling, but there was none. Perhaps he had ice flowing in his veins, but he knew he had a job to do and that keeping his cool was crucial in getting the team closer to winning the regional play-offs.
My thoughts were constantly interrupted by the parents of the opposing, heckling, up-state team. Perhaps they were feeling the stress of 3 days of baseball, but for sure, they were not having any fun. Neither were we. No one was telling their kid to "go out and have some fun." This was about winning or losing, not fun. T-ball days were fun, this was stressful nausea.
I continued to glance around, rather amused as several of the parents on the opposing team, had perched themselves behind the home plate fence, looking like toddlers in a play pen. I believe they must have founded the organization called "Let's Hassle the Ump." They were pacing and yelling strange words to their kids and ours as well. They appeared to be angry at someone and their pot was boiling over as we reached the last few minutes of the game.
I made every attempt to tune out their loud applause when my son threw a "ball" near the strike zone or when they noisily shouted their objection to a "strike" call. I felt sorry for the ump, who seemed oblivious to their jeers. Maybe he was used to it.
Finally the inning was over when we scored one run to win. Even though I was still feeling the urge to vomit, I turned my focus upon my son's face as he walked off the field. Still the same expressionless face, but he glanced over where I was sitting, only I was no longer sitting, I was standing up cheering for a well-played game.
Yes winning was fun, but it was short-lived, since the final game that could possibly send us to the Nationals in Ohio had to be played. We would either go to Ohio or home to shower away a long season of 65 games.
And so the final game began, intense heat and playing hard to win, but at least my son was not pitching. The nausea still hovered around though. We lost by one run, just one run away from sweet victory. I had already packed in my mind for Ohio. I felt like crying. Two of the players on our team were crying in the dug out. Perhaps this was a typical response of children in men's bodies, maybe the stress was under the surface just waited to be released. I saw a few parents crying too.
No this was not fun. This was travel baseball.
We all looked like we were in shock. I tried to speak, but a huge lump caught in my throat. What was there to say? I knew I had to get myself together so I could say some upbeat words to my son to life his spirts. I was rehearsing a few lines as I was engulfed in my private pity party. Then I saw him walk over to me.
I looked deep into his eyes wondering how he was coping with the loss. I spoke first.
"Tough game!" I said as I looked away so he didn't see me cry. I collected myself and looked back at him. He was smiling,"Mom,it's only a game!"
And so it was. How I wished I had that attitude during all the years my boys played sports, especially when they were younger. I have seen parents, grandparents, and coaches ordered out of the park by an ump. I have seen pitchers crying on the mound as their Dad called them a "cry baby." I have heard all kinds of negative comments. No it was never fun.
I'd like to say that I had always behaved maturely, but this would be a terrible lie. I could best be described as a recovering "Parent-fan-idiot-holic!" I invented this phrase hoping there was a pill I could take to cure me.
I came to terms with my conditon one rainy day when I made an utter fool of myself in the middle of a 6 yr old soccer game. There was a ridiculous confrontation over a hat that I insisted my son wear in the rainy game. I learned some hard rules. First, hats are against the rules. Secondly real men play in the rain, get their hair wet, and go to the pediatrician in a few days.
I do not recall how I ended up on the middle of that field that day. I was seeing red and my feet were out of control. The other coach had the game stopped to have my son remove his hat. I didn't even hear the chants from the parents of the other team yelling,"Get that idiot off the field?"
My son still recalls that day that keeps resurfacing like esophageal reflux. To add to the chaos, my husband was the coach. He fondly spoke of the D word when we got home if I ever did that again.
My son just finished college baseball and that was not fun either. But he kept the same attitude, even after his pitching arm needed surgery that sent his hopes of pitching in the majors to a screaming halt. He had been pitching for 17 years, perhaps too long for one arm to endure.
We have gotten over the loss of the pitching arm. As I have come to terms with the loss, I hear those same words," Mom, it's only a game!" And so it was.