Going Yard 9/26/04

There is nothing in the world quite like the homerun. The pitcher and the batter face off, with the rules forcing the pitcher to give the batter something to hit, and obligating the batter to at least swing the bat if the pitch is in the strike zone. Every now and then, a good hitter gets a sweet fat pitch in the zone, which is different for every hitter, and gets all of it, so the ball sails off the bat and flies for hundreds of feet through the air and over the fence. It's glorious to see, and the batter trots around the bases while the team leaves the dugout and gathers around home plate to welcome the conqueror home. I almost missed my first homerun as a baseball parent. My oldest son was a very good hitter, and an even better defensive middle infielder, but he hit for average and, with a very unorthodox knock-kneed stance (think Julio Franco), he never went yard in a game. Although my middle son played recreational baseball through the age of fourteen, he was slight and in his heart was a musician and not an athlete. He never came close. We always knew that number three had the strength, though, and although I rarely missed a game, when he was eleven years old playing Little League Baseball, I had to make a choice and went to Two's spring band concert instead of baseball. Bless my Mama's heart, she (always the good Gramma) went with me, and after the middle school band in which my Two played the French Horn was finished, I realized I could still make the very end of Three's game, which was right around the corner, so I slipped out, leaving Gramma there representing the family. I arrived at the park in a dress, to gasps and stares, and instead of standing in the dugout with a clipboard and scorebook, I stood high on the hill above the field as I walked into the park while my youngest was stepping up to the plate with the game on the line. I only saw one pitch and when I saw the ball rise above the fence and leave the field, I jumped up and down and screamed with joy. I almost cried because I'd come so close to missing it. He's hit a few more since then, enough that I'm not sure of the count. Nine? Maybe ten? Few enough that it's always a surprise, but so frequently that I never forget it's possible, and always sort of expect it, or at least hope for it. He hit one last night, 330 feet over the center field fence, but in a moment of amazing wisdom after the game, he confessed to me his disappointment. We didn't win. He struck out twice with one homerun in his three at bats. He said, "Mom, if I'd hit three doubles we might have won. I would rather have had three doubles." "Experience is a hard teacher because she gives the test first, and the lesson afterwards." - Vernon Law, Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher