Work Text:
My son had a rough day. With two outs, a man on first and third, and down by one run, he stepped up to the plate. I watched as he put his gloves on and tapped home plate twice with his bat before winding it in two small circles and pulling back. It's his batting ritual and he's been doing it since he was six years old.
He crowds the plate. He always has. The pitcher picks up on this and immediately throws my son a nasty curveball that he just can't hit. I can tell from my seat on the bleachers that this pitch is going to do him in . . . He's just too close to the plate to hit it. The catcher throws the same sign and I know immediately that my twelve year old is about to be served two additional curveballs to end the game and all I can do is watch.
My prediction was proven true and now here I am, peering into his bedroom. He's sitting on his bed, still dressed in his uniform, pounding his baseball into his glove in frustration. I know he feels like he failed his team and the guilt of that will sit with him until his next game when he makes some extraordinary play at second base. He is a terrific fielder.
"Josh?" I call hesitantly as I make my way into his room.
"Yeah?" He doesn't even look up as he barely utters his response.
"Tough game buddy." I pull his desk chair over to his bed and take a seat.
"I lost the game for us."
Ahh here it is, his guilt. "You didn't lose the game Josh. You just happened to be the guy who stepped up to the plate with two outs. Plenty of your teammates struck out today." I try to give my best dad response. And hey, it's true, he just happened to be the last guy to strike out. The lineup just wasn't in his favor.
"There's no way I'm making the junior high team next year Dad, not if I can't hit a curveball." He falls back onto his bed in exasperation and begins to frantically rub at his hair with the type of frustration that I experience on a weekly basis with Manhattan traffic.
"Practice, pal. You'll get it. Ya know you crowd the plate, right? We've gone over this," I chuckle a little and pat his shoulder, but he's not in the mood to joke. This is really eating at him.
"I can't get the bat around fast enough if I step back."
"You need a lighter bat."
"But I like my new bat. It's from Mr. McGarry."
"I know you do, but you'll grow into it in a year or two. Or ya know, you could choke up on the bat, so you can swing it around faster." I'm quick to make this suggestion, Josh loves the bat that Leo gave him as a Hanukkah gift.
"I need to hit the batting cages more. I can practice standing farther back in the batter's box and figure out where to grip the bat to swing it faster."
I smile at my son, I love his persistence. He's determined to get better; he doesn't want to let him team down and I admire that about him. I look at my watch and realize I need to get back to work.
"Well, I will take you next week," I suggest as I put his desk chair back and head towards the door.
"Kay."
Something in Josh's voice stops me in my tracks. I turn around and he looks disappointed. I thought our conversation had ended on a good note with a strategy to improve his batting average, but I'm now realizing that all we did was make a plan with the promise of working on his swing next week. He has another game between now and then. I suddenly realize I'm prioritizing my work over Joshua, and I just can't do that. I only have a few more years with him before he starts wanting to hangout with his friends and maybe a girlfriend instead of going to the cages with his dad. When he's 18 and leaving for college, I don't want to have any regrets. I don't ever want to miss out on moments with him. My work can wait.
"You know what buddy, let's go now. Let's hit some curveballs and then order pizza. Sound okay?"
"Yeah!?" I hear the excitement in his voice and it is better than any trial victory.
"Of course yeah. Let's go."
"Ah-kay Dad."
"We'll keep at it, so that next time you step up to the plate, you can kick that curveball's ass."
O0o0o0o0o0oo0o
"Okay Noah, go ahead and step back in the batter's box a little, you don't want to crowd the plate," I tell my six year old son the same thing my Dad told me when I was a kid.
"Ah-kay Daddy," he shuffles his little feet back and adjusts the batter's helmet that keeps falling forward and blocking his eyes.
"Good job, now choke up on the bat, you gotta be able to swing it fast."
"Like this?"
"Perfect." I give him a thumbs up as I'm about to put the quarters into the machine and hit the option for the slowest pitch. Noah's starting baseball next spring, after the Santos administration finishes up and we move to Connecticut. Donna and I are really excited about the move and we've narrowed our search down to a few different homes. We have dedicated our lives to politics and shared the last 15 and a half years together in the White House, and now more than anything, we are ready to live a much quieter and slow paced life with our children.
"Wait Daddy!" Noah turns to look at me with a sense of urgency. "I can't swing yet, I gotta do the routine!"
"You're right buddy, you let me know when you're ready for the pitches to start." I smile as I watch my son tap home plate twice with his bat and then follow up with the two circle wind up before he pulls the bat back.
"Did I do it good Daddy!? I've been practicing!"
"It was perfect Noah! Great job!" I just showed him the Lyman batting ritual a few weeks ago, and he's been working on practicing his technique ever since. I know kids these days use alloy bats, but when Donna and I went shopping for Hanukkah gifts and I saw a traditional Louisville Slugger maple wood bat, I knew it was meant for Noah. We had his name engraved on the handle and he was so excited when he opened it. Next year, we'll be getting one for Leo. He's still a little young for a real baseball bat. And I'm not quite ready to even think about buying a bat for our baby girl. I don't want to think about her growing up just yet. She is adorable in her Mets onesie though, which has been passed along from her brothers.
"I'm just like you Daddy!" Noah gives me a dimpled grin as he performs the batting ritual again. "Put the quarters in, I'm ready for my first pitch!"
"What do you say, Son?" Noah has manners and I want him to use them.
"Pleeeease put the quarters in Daddy!"
"Yes sir. Okay here comes the first pitch, get ready." I wait in anticipation as the machine slowly winds back and tosses out a ball. Noah takes a good swing, but misses.
"Ahhh I missed. Hmph!" Ah yes, he gets that 'hmph' from his mom, and it makes me grin. He is like her in so many ways.
"Don't worry, that's usually what happens when you first start batting. You just need to be patient. Keep your eye on the ball, you'll start to hit some." I don't get a response. Noah is laser focused on connecting with a pitch.
"Daddy I'm gonna get one!" He swings and misses again.
"I know you will pal. And we will keep putting quarters in until you hit one." I don't care that I have a pile of briefing memos on my desk at the White House that I have to read through later, we are not leaving until Noah hits his first pitch. This is a once in a lifetime moment and I am not missing it.
After several pitches, I watch as Noah steps back and lets a ball go by. He digs his foot into the artificial turf and takes a moment to repeat the batting routine. This is the pitch, I can feel it. I watch as my son slightly chokes up on the bat and just at the right time he steps into the pitch and swings the bat around. I hear the familiar crack of a wooden bat connecting with a baseball as it sails off down what would be the third base line. Noah stands there and watches, but then immediately drops the bat as he scampers out of the cage, losing his helmet in the process.
"Daddy! Daddy! I did it!"
"You sure did buddy!" My enthusiasm matches his as he jumps into my waiting arms and I lift him up in a bear hug.
"Did you see!?" He rubs his hands through his hair in excitement.
"I saw!" I give him a dimpled grin that matches his own as we high five. "Good job buddy. Now how about you go hit another one so I can record it on my phone for Mommy."
"Ah-kay Daddy!" Noah shouts as he sprints back into the batting cage.
I smile as I watch him pick up his bat. Noah will be ready to hit the curveball in no time.