Tonight, in the championship game for the Little League Angels, there was one of those moments; the kind that can change your life or, at the very least, can turn you into a hero for awhile. It was the kind of moment that you wish for your kids so that they can feel that intense joy and taste success that maybe escaped you as a kid or, if you were lucky, the kind that you got to taste at least once. The boys were down 5-2, two outs, bases loaded and my Jake came up to bat...
When Jake was 3 years old, on his third day of preschool no less, I got a phone call from the director of Good Shepherd and, to this day, I will never forget it. I said hello and she instantly told me, "Jake has had an accident, you need to come and take him to the hospital" Click and the line went blank. Nick was only 6 months old at the time and he was napping at that moment. I remember from the second I dropped the phone, all the way until I ran through the parking lot, hearing him scream, the stark terror that crept through my entire body. It wasn't instant. It was like someone had injected the fear and worry one needle at a time into my body and it moved slowly, painfully throughout my entire being until it reached my brain and then it clouded it so that I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, all I could do was move toward my little boy. I ran through the lot, into the classroom and I saw the teacher holding him, cradling him to her chest and he was screaming and sobbing and later, she told me that she saw the color drain from my face when I saw him, but, I also recall telling myself to calm down, to act like an adult, to take charge of the situation. I remember walking over to him and kissing his face and telling him that everything would be okay. Even as the teacher removed the cloth from his forehead and I could see the gaping hole above my 3 year old's left eyebrow. His teacher held him as I drove them both to the hospital. As we waited for the doctor to take him in, my mother in law came to sit with me. A retired surgical nurse, she is the one to call in these situations, calm and collected and trusting of physicians. She was a rock that afternoon. We had to wait for awhile as there were other more vital emergencies before the gaping hole in my kid's head so the nurse gave Jake a popsicle. I even remember that it was orange and double sided. He ate it and then he sat down, never crying again or complaining or yelling or anything about why he had to wait or what he was doing there or why it hurt. He was probably in shock my mother in law said, but thankfully so, thankfully. Not too long after that, the physician took us in and told us that he'd have to stitch up Jake's head unless we wanted to wait for a plastic surgeon. We opted not to after speaking with our pediatrician. Tim came flying in from work and helped me reassure Jake that everything would be fine, even as the nurse strapped him into the papoose and after she lay a paper towel across his face with only the wound exposed. We told him that we loved him and that we were proud of how brave he was and that we'd take him to Toys R Us if he would just hold on a little bit longer... and then, it was over and he was sitting up, smiling, asking for another popsicle and telling us that he was ready for a toy... resilience, maybe the best quality of a child.
Those moments that define who we are as human beings are few and far between because some of us don't even realize that they are happening. Like when you give a couple of bucks to that homeless man on the corner; might not seem like a big deal, but then again, it is to him. Maybe that money helped him to hold on for one more day. The thing I've come to understand though is that as a parent, I'd trade all of my moments so that my children could have one of their own. And even though I know that it's not necessary or even an option, I would gladly give them any success that I've had so that each of them could have at least one memory of their own where they were important, where they mattered just a bit more in that situation than anyone else. Not that they did, but that they felt that way. And, I would venture to say that most parents feel like that. Their happiness means more than our own... that's part of the reason why we had them. We want to see them shine...
I was standing next to the fence, watching Jake swing the bat as he waited for the pitcher to warm up and I turned away and said under my breath, I can't watch. I was so nervous for him, for the possibility that he would get the chance, right then, with all of us there, to have one of those moments. I waited and crossed my fingers. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me, I kind of had tunnel vision for a few moments, until I heard a man say, "Is that your son?" and he pointed to Jake and I said, "Yes." He was one of the parents from Eastview Little League, one who had cleaned up the infield after the third inning. He smiled at me and said, "He is such a polite young man" and I must have looked confused, thinking, how would he know that when he clarified, "After we cleaned the infield, he was the only one on either team who said Thank You to both of us." And, I couldn't help it, I smiled and thanked him for saying that, telling him that I would convey his sentiment to Jake later on. And in that moment, and in many moments since I've had Jake, I've been more proud of the person he is than I have been of any accomplishment that he's attained. He is a fine person and a good hearted human being. He has the qualities that will make him successful regardless of what he wants to do with his life. He's just special and while all parents think that about their children, I know it. I see it every day and I feel it. Jake is special.
I wish I could say that he was the hero of the game; that he hit the grandslam and won the game, won the championship, but, it didn't happen like that and when the third pitch went by, I felt it in my heart, I saw it on his face and he tried so hard, so valiantly, not to let anyone see it. But I knew, I watched it as he collected his Runner up trophy, as he packed up his bag and as he walked toward me, trying desperately to hold it in, asking me if we could "just go." And I fell in step beside him as the tears rolled down his face and as we drove home, the frustration and sadness came through and my son, who I held down in the emergency room when he had 18 stitches, who I held in my arms when he had ear infections, who still holds my hand when we walk together out in public; I watched him suffer and there wasn't anything that I could do to help him. I touched him arm and I told him that I loved him and that it would be okay. I told him that he needed to let himself feel it, all of it and then, he needed to let it go because there would be and there will be other moments. And, I told him, that one day, he would get his grandslam; maybe it will be a college acceptance letter or a yes to a marriage proposal, maybe it will be a winning lottery ticket or courtside seats to Game 7 in the NBA finals or maybe it will be when he is standing on the sideline watching his own child step up to bat, in a similar situation and knowing that he would give up everything just so that his child would feel a modicum of success, of joy... And when that happens, he'll know and he'll be the better man for it.
The ultimate test of whether or not you raised a boy well is not watching him hit a grandslam or marry the prom queen; the ultimate test is seeing him turn into a warm, generous, giving man that others want to be around. Jake is that boy and someday, very soon, he will be that man...
We are very proud of you Jake and we love you very much... always.
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