The snack bar was out of hot dogs. I bought a soda instead. I was not really feeling a hot dog anyway.
“My boy is going to be the next Mike Trout,” this middle-aged mom said to anyone who would listen. During the winter months she took her 12-year-old to an indoor batting cage. This former minor league baseball player gave him personal lessons. Her son was good. But he was not Mike Trout good.
Our boys’ baseball team was dragging through the dog days of summer. We travelled throughout small towns in South Jersey. We won one. We lost one. The team was neither good nor bad. My son enjoyed playing, but he was one of the worst kids on the team.
Some of the parents were upset the team was not playing better. A few of the kids also played on an elite travel team. They hated losing. Half the kids on the team were named Chase. Some yelled at the umpires over a borderline call. A lot of the parents hung their own dreams and aspirations onto the kids.
My son came up to the plate. He had only two hits so far this season. The season was half over. I noticed a few parents roll their eyes. He was one of the smaller kids on the team. The other team’s pitcher was tall for his age. His fastball was probably close to 70 miles per hour. He had a moustache.
My son dug in and tapped home plate with his bat. Although he could not hit, he never showed fear. The first pitch was a fastball on the inside part of the plate. Strike one. My son stepped out, took a practice swing, and then stepped back into the batter’s box. The pitcher kicked and unleashed another fastball.
This pitch was also inside. In fact, it was too inside. My son did not bother to get out of the way. The ball drilled him in the back. The umpire told him to take first base.
“He didn’t bother to get out of the way” the opposing team’s coach called out. The pitcher looked upset.
I watched my son trot to first base.
“Don’t rub it,” I mumbled to myself.
My son did not rub his back where the ball hit him. It would leave a mark. The first base coach gave him a high five. They were both smiling.
If the snack bar made more hot dogs, I would buy my son one along with a soda after the game.
Jason Love lives in New Jersey. He is working on a novel tentatively titled Hey, Jay Bob (you're an @sshole): A Love Story. Thank you for taking the time to read his story.