“Mean look,” I tell him.
His face contorts from a smile to a smirk to a scowl. Lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. He will crush this pitch. He will hit it so hard and so far that we’ll have to go back to the sports store at the mall to get another one.
“Ready?” I ask.
More scowl. Ready.
I toss the ball. He begins the happy dance with his feet when the pitch is halfway there, turns his back to the plate, and, just as the ball crosses, heaves the bat forward with all his might.
The result is predictable.
He misses. And because he misses, the bat flies out of his hands and almost hits the neighbor’s dog, he nearly screws himself into the ground, and the ball trickles under the shed in our backyard.
“What happened?” he asks.
“You missed,” I say. “Grab the ball and try and find your bat. Let’s try again.”
He does. Tap/whip/scowl. He will crush this pitch.
Same result, though this time the bat flies toward me and I have to either duck or face decapitation.
“What happened?” he asks again.
“It’s baseball, Buddy,” I say. “Not batball.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Concentrate, okay? You don’t have to try and knock it a mile. Just hit it.”
Tap/whip/scowl.
Flying bat/grass stains/”What happened?”
“Let’s say it’s halftime,” I tell him.
“There isn’t halftime in baseball, Daddy,” he says.
“Well then let’s just say it’s a commercial.”
“Okay.”
I stroll over to him and we have a seat in the grass. Neither of us speak for a few minutes. I’m trying to work out a way to fix his swing, get his head straight, and keep his feet still in the batter’s box. And to hang on to the bat before he breaks a window. He’s thinking about the blue sky and the white clouds and whether it’s really a white sky with blue clouds.
“I’m going to fix your swing,” I tell him.
“White sky with blue clouds,” he says. “That’s better.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, so I ignore him. I tell him to take his stance and then proceed to walk him through every miniscule component of the perfect baseball swing.
Weight balanced. Hands back. Feet spread and even. Weight slightly back. Head still. Step into the ball. Turn your hips. Make an “L” with the back leg. Follow the ball. Center your mass. Extend. Follow through.
Got it?
Yes.
Flying bat/grass stains/”What happened?”
I let out an exasperated sigh for an answer and toss my glove into the white sky with the blue clouds.
And then my son says the two words that crush me and make me realize I have much more to learn when it comes to fatherhood—
“Sorry, Dad.”
I pick my glove up from the ground and walk towards him again. Time for another commercial.
We sit in the grass. I’m now pondering the sky because it gets my mind off acting like an idiot. My son is beside me pondering how he’d let me down.
“You know what?” I ask. “Sometimes I get a little frustrated. Not at you, at me. And I try to hard to do something. I try to force it. I try to make it happen instead of letting it happen. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m gonna toss you a ball, and I don’t want you to think about anything except hitting it. Don’t worry about how far it goes or how hard you swing or where you put your feet or your head. Just relax. Be gentle. Don’t make it happen, let it happen. And then swing. Okay?”
“Okay, Daddy.”
I take my place and he takes his.
Tap/back easy/smile.
I toss the ball. My son eases back, relaxing into himself. He swings when the pitch reaches the edge of the garbage can lid.
And connects.
The ball zings past my head before I can react and lands with a splash in the creek. We both run after it before it can float away, screaming and laughing.
My son has learned to hit. And in the process, I have learned how to better raise him.
I will relax. Be gentle.
I will let him happen rather than make him happen.
This post was part of the One Word blog carnival, Gentleness host by my friend Bridget Chumbley at One Word at a Time.
