We Won 11-7

"Mommy, we won 11-7," Cal told me as I walked toward him to give him knucks last Wednesday night, just minutes after he had finished playing his first official baseball game of what we hope will be many to come.

"I know!" I responded.  I really didn't know.  I figured we had won -- it just seemed like we had more baserunners over the course of our 4-inning game.  I certainly didn't know the score.  "I am SO PROUD of you, Cal!"

"I scored the winning run!" he added.

"You scored the 8th run?" I asked.  I couldn't help myself.  I knew what he meant.

"No, I scored the LAST run," he corrected me.

And then I took us down the path of explaining what a winning run really is and trying to make him understand that the last run isn't necessarily the winning run.  Goodness.  Just let it go, Mommy.  He's six.

I was proud of him.  Those weren't just empty words said just because I'm his mom and supposed to say that.  I was proud of him for so many reasons.

He first came to the plate after three others had batted and gotten on base.  Our righty

Cal Batting

who naturally bats lefty, he swung and either missed or fouled off the seven pitches that Dan threw to him, the last of which was a swing and a miss.  He struck out, or really just ran out of pitches.  The kids get 7 to hit one fair.  I cringed when it happened, only because I was afraid of his reaction.  Cal doesn't like it when things don't go how he wants or expects them to.  He doesn't like to fail.

His reaction was exactly what it should have been, one that a seasoned veteran would do knowing that even the best players actually fail 7 times out of 10, not that I'm suggesting Cal actually knew that.  He set his bat down, took his helmet off, grabbed his cap and then walked to the end of the line of his teammates who were standing on the sideline in their batting order.  And from there, he watched teammate after teammate get on base.

No tears. No loss of interest in what was going on in the game.  No apparent jealousy of the successes of his teammates.  And once we were done batting, he grabbed his glove and ran out to his 2nd-inning position -- shortstop -- to play some defense.

I was proud of Cal for handling his strikeout like a pro.

Father-Son, Coach-Player Pre-Game Selfie

I watched him, dressed head to toe in baseball gear.  Cap.  Green, Dry-Fit jersey.  White baseball pants with a green belt.  Green socks.  Cleats.  He looked like a ballplayer.  I wondered what he was thinking when he got dressed for his first game.  Was he nervous? Was he excited?  Was he proud?  Or was it an opportunity for him to play with his friends? I'll never know.  Even if I asked, I don't think he's yet capable of accurately recognizing and describing what he's feeling, what he's thinking.

I was that kid once.  And my parents were me.  All those years I played and they watched, I knew they were proud.  They told me.  I thought it was because I was a decent player, that I had some good games.  I realized Wednesday night it wasn't really that at all. All it took was me stepping on the field, taking a chance, trying, listening, interacting, just being me.

I was proud of him for just being on that field and participating.

When it came time for his second at-bat, I worried.  Just hit it fair, Cal.  He did -- just fair -- and reached base successfully.  I saw his smile from the other side of the field. He then stood at first, crouched and ready to run.  He wasn't standing upright.  He wasn't looking at the other game being played on the field behind him.  And as soon as the next batter hit the ball fair, Cal then then tentatively, awkwardly advanced to second safely, getting a little direction from the coach in the field. He's got so much to learn, and I'll get to witness the wonder of that.

I was proud of him for getting on base, flashing his beautiful smile and then running the bases how he thought he should.

I watched him throw on the catcher's gear with a little help from one of the "assistant" coaches.  There are a bunch of them, diminishing any role I could have with the team. I'll let others step up.  There are many who want to.  And that's fine with me.  Work's pretty crazy right now, anyway.  And, really, I just want to watch my kid play and my husband coach.  I just want to be a proud mom.  I'm on Ella duty anyway, which is a whole other story.  But I digress...

Cal Catching

A couple of weeks ago, Dan threw the catcher's gear on Cal who then "caught" while Ella batted and Dan pitched to her.  He hated every second of it and let us know it.  At that time, I really wasn't sure we'd ever see him in catcher's gear again.  That it happened so soon after the initial debacle with it, i.e. meltdown, surprised me.  I don't even remember how he did behind the plate -- I just remember he didn't complain.

I was proud of him for giving the catcher's gear another shot.

Cal ended up getting on base another time, which was in the inning where he scored the "winning" (11th) run.  He had a stint in the outfield, too, playing right-center field as well as anyone could (no balls came his way).  And between all of that, he cheered for and enjoyed the company of his teammates, fellow kindergarteners, all early and already at varying levels of abilities in their baseball careers.  I watched him run on and off the field between innings.  I watched him try to find his cap amongst a sea of caps without getting upset or frustrated.  I watched him then put his found cap in his glove and set it on the sideline so he'd know where to find it when he was done batting.  I watched him have fun playing the sport that both his father and I love so much.

I was one proud mom.  I'm smiling just thinking back and remembering it.

On Thursday morning, Cal drew this picture.  At the risk of being dramatic, I think it's very telling.  That he drew it tells me he's excited about playing baseball.  That he wrote all of the names of his teammates tells me he's a team player.  That he knew the score tells me he's proud of their win.

Cal's post-win drawing