Last night was the first game in Number One Son's little league baseball tournament. Going into the bottom of the 6th inning, his team (the "Marlins," ugh) was ahead 12 to 10 against the "Yankees." Alas, the Marlins did not manage to record a single out before the Yankees had scored the winning run. Season over.
Once we got home (at 10:00!!!), Number One Son cried and cried. He didn't cry because his team had lost, or because he hadn't gotten a hit.* He cried because baseball season is over and he can't play with his team any more. I put him in my lap and let him cry about it, and told him yes, we would find a way to hang up his jersey and his hat so he could remember his first baseball team. I told him I was proud of the way he learned to play the game this year, and of how good his attitude always was, and how glad I was he enjoyed it so much. I was also proud that he just wants to play more. I was never any good at baseball, so I don't have a lot personally invested in this game . . . but I'm awfully proud of the way he stuck with it so cheerfully all season.
*he made contact three times last night--all foul balls--but it was the closest to a hit he got all season. Hard to catch up to a 40 mph machine-pitched baseball, especially with his skinny arms.
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