March 3 -- To continue from my entry last night, remember that Riley went to bed without knowing -- for sure -- that he was on a minor's level baseball team. I know that even though I explained the likelihood that this was how it would turn out for him, I am certain he still held a tiny speck of hope that he might be called by a coach at the major level.
So I went to bed knowing we would tell him in the morning. I tossed and turned all night, dreading the inevitable conversation.
And this is where I have to say that one of my most profound and grace filled experiences as a parent is when I recognize that often, it is the child who is the teacher, and not the other way around.
Riley came into our bedroom when he got up. Brian and I were sitting there, quietly drinking our coffee. When Brian told Riley he was on the minors, Riley's facial expression didn't change. He just looked at Brian and said nothing. And then Brian told him the coach's name. And that's when Riley smiled and did a small fist pump in the air. "Yesssss!" he hissed.
I was in shock. I mean, I like the guy coaching but I couldn't believe Riley's joyful reaction. It was totally amazing! I think he was just relieved to finally have something of an answer, even if it wasn't what he had most hoped for. We talked about the pros and cons of playing with the younger kids while most of his friends would be at the major level. "You know what?" he said, "I will be having so much more playing time. That's a really good thing. " And he walked out of the room to get ready for school. Brian and I looked at each other and were like, alright!!
Later this afternoon, I checked my emails when I got home from work. Ping, ping, ping, the emails tallied up on the screen. Several moms whose boys had made the major level sent emails titled, "Re. Majors Teams" communicating what team their son had been assigned to. Needless to say, my stomach turned. Didn't they think of the people whose kids might not have been so fortunate? Apparently not. Oh well. I wanted to respond but I didn't. It just wasn't worth the time and effort. I'm sure they were proud of their kids and happy. And truly, I am happy for them. But my number one dude was standing next to me and that's why I was bummed. There it was again -- my kid was the only one on the mailing list who didn't make the majors. Of course it hurt to see those emails. How could it not? When Riley asked me what the emails said, I told him. And he spun into a little funk again. "Really? How were they better than me?" I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know honey," I said, "but apparently they are better. In baseball, that is."
We sat on the couch together for a few minutes while he processed this information. And then he asked his brother, "wanna go throw some balls outside?" Once again, he was squaring his shoulders, standing tall and pushing himself to move on.
Honestly? I couldn't be prouder of him. I still don't like the idea that he has to pose the question in the first place -- asking himself why or how he was he lacking in his tryout. I mean, sure, there will be plenty of times -- school teams, college applications, break-ups with girlfriends etc. -- when dealing with public rejection will be an important life lesson. But at age 10? Really? I go back to my question raised yesterday. Why is this necessary in baseball? Even Riley pointed this inequity out to me today when he said, "if they had extra kids, couldn't they have just made another team? Like in rec basketball? Why can't kids in the same grade all play together?" Again, I have no answer. Nonetheless, it is what it is. When we let Riley try out for the major level teams, we opened the door to this possible result. So we live with it. And we learn. A lot. From all perspectives.
No comments:
Post a Comment