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It's a chilly Saturday in May. I could be home
sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the living room or
curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I'm
sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball
park in Kirkland, Washington. An icy wind creeps through
my heavy winter jacket. I blow on my hands, wishing I'd
brought my woolen mittens.
"Mrs. Bodmer?" It's the coach my son Matthew admires
so much that he gave up soda pop to impress him with his
fitness. "I'm starting your son today in right field.
He's worked hard this year and I think he deserves the
opportunity."
"Thanks," I say, feeling proud of my son who has given
this man and this team everything he has. I know how badly
he wants this. I'm glad his hard work is being rewarded.
Suddenly I'm nervous for him as the team members, in
their white pinstriped uniforms, trot onto the field. I
search for my son's number. It isn't there. Instead,
Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team, takes
right field. I look again, unbelieving. How can that be?
I want to run over and ask the coach what's going on,
but I know Matthew wouldn't like that. I've learned the
proper etiquette for moms; talking to the coach is not
acceptable unless he initiates it.
My son, gripping the chain-link fence in front of the
dugout, is yelling encouragement to his teammates. I try
to read his expression, but I know he, like most males, has
learned to hide his feelings. My heart breaks because he
has worked so hard and received so much disappointment. I
don't understand what drives boys to put themselves through
this.
"Atta Boy, Eddie," yells the right-fielder's father,
proud that his son is starting. I've seen this same man
walk out of games in disgust when his son dropped a ball or
made a bad throw. But for now, he is proud of his son, who
is starting, while my son is on the bench.
By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the
cold and my feet are numb, but I don't care. Matthew has
been called into the game. He stands, chooses a batting
helmet, picks up a bat and struts out to the plate. I grip
the metal seat. He takes a couple of practice swings. The
pitcher looks like an adult. I wonder if anyone has
checked his birth certificate.
Strike one. "Nice swing!" I yell. The next pitch is
a ball. "Good eye! Good eye!" Strike two. I pray. I
cross my fingers. The pitcher winds up. I hold my breath.
Strike three. My son's head hangs, and he slowly walks
back to the dugout. I wish with all my heart I could help.
But I know there's nothing I can do.
For eight years I've been sitting here. I've drunk
gallons of terrible coffee, eaten tons of green hot dogs
and salty popcorn. I've endured cold and heat, wind and
rain.
Some people may wonder why a sane person would go
through this. It's not because I want to fulfill my dream
of excelling at sports through my kids. I also don't do
this for the emotional highs. Of, yes, I've had some.
I've seen my two sons score winning goals in soccer, hit
home runs in baseball, and spark come-from-behind wins in
basketball. I've seen them make some incredible leaping
catches in football. But mostly I've seen heartache.
I've waited with them for that phone call telling them
they'd made the team. The call that never came. I've
watched coaches yell at them. I've watched them sit on the
bench game after game. I've sat in emergency rooms as
broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. I've sat
here year after year, observing it all and wondering why.
The game ends. I stretch my legs and try to stomp
life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the
team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on
their parents. I notice Eddie's dad has big grin and is
slapping his son on the back. Matthew wants to get a
hamburger. While I wait for him, the coach approaches me.
I can't bring myself to look at him.
"Mrs. Bodmer, I want you to know that's a fine young
man you have there."
I wait for him to explain why he broke my son's heart.
"When I told your son he could start, he thanked me
and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it
meant more to him."
I turn to watch my son stuffing his burger into his
mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else
can I watch my son grow into a man?"
By Judy Bodmer
from Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul
Copyright 1997 Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jennifer
Read Hawthorne, and Ron Marci Shimoff
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