Sunshine

He's my son. mine. And I'm not talking flesh and blood. I'm talking soul. His brains. His heart. His insecurities. Him. The insides. 

He's my son. Now, don't get me wrong. He's got some of his dad, too. 

But he's mine. 

And never have I seen this so clearly as I have during this baseball season. 

Mason hasn't played ball in three years. He just didn't want to really. But this year, he asked to play and we very excitedly signed him up. We got the bat and gloves and cleats and uniform. We showed up to the first practice. 

And that's when we first saw it. 

That moment when a kid looks at everyone else and realizes he's not the best on the field. Realizes, in fact, he may be just shy of...the worst. Except it wasn't just a kid. It was my son.

Now, he wasn't all pouty and whiney about it. He didn't cry and beg not to play. He didn't even say he felt like he wasn't good...at first. But nothing he did was good enough. 

He could catch 12 balls and miss one. And all he remembered was the missed one. 

He could throw straight every time...except that one toss. That one stray throw caused the inner scowl I know all too well. 

And then there was batting. After one particular batting practice, he climbed into the car and I said, truthfully, "I think you did great!" 

Eyes full of self loathing and failure, he gritted out the words, "Mom. Three coaches. Three different coaches had to talk to me. About my stance and my swing and where to look and when to swing. I'm the worst batter on the team." 

You know, those are the moments of parenthood that hurt. That cut you to the core. I thought motherhood was tough when they skinned a knee or struggled with long division. But seeing my son, my son whose soul is wrapped in mine, whose every expression and mannerism is a mirror of the person I am, stare straight out the the car window and spit out the words, "I'm the worst..." 

It can kill a mother. 

Especially when that mother says that to herself all the time. 

If he had been crying, that would have helped. Maybe even thrown something, punched the dashboard, fallen into my arms and sobbed - I could have said he was just being irrational. He was just tired. But it was the steely, decided words that so clearly and distinctly marched from his lips that shook me. 

Because, you see, those words have clearly and distinctly marched from my lips a hundred times before. I felt it. I could feel his frustration pulsing through his veins. I could hear the thoughts of self doubt darting through his mind. And I could feel his heart crumpling under the weight of the ever more familiar feeling of simply not good enough. But worse than all of that, was that I knew the true thief of his smile. 

Comparison. 

You can't be the worst at something if you're not comparing yourself to others. You're simply bad. But to be the worst, to say you're the worst, is to look at those around you and decide you don't quite measure up. 

Comparison. The thief of joy.

And I know where my son has learned of this thief. 

Me. 

And that's why that conversation on the drive home from batting practice nearly killed me. At age 31, I still allow comparison to steal my joy. I still peer into the better managed classrooms of other teachers and feel like a failure. I still scroll through the blogs of other photographers and think I should just shut down Sprinkle of Grace. I still walk into the pristine homes of my friends and feel like I'll never be as good a homemaker as them. I struggle with comparison on a nearly daily basis. 

And here I was hearing my son say the word "worst" about himself at age 10. 

Obviously, I tried to convey that the coaches only worked with him so much because they saw so much potential, because he was a hard worker, because he was coachable. And obviously, these words fell on deaf ears. 

As the games and practices continued on, batting was his nemesis. He dreaded it. Fielding was fine. He still struggled some, but he understood where the play was, had a good arm on him, and was almost always in the right place at the right time. But batting... man, oh, man. 

The worst of it was last week, during a game, his team was down by 2 or so, 2 outs, and mason was up to bat. And suddenly, he was "sick." He told his coach he felt like throwing up. It was a hot game, he hadn't eaten dinner, and probably was a little icky. But really, I knew. He knew he'd strike out and he'd disappoint the team, again. I forced him to the plate. And by the grace of God, he actually got hit in the cleat by a ball and was able to take a base and even scored.  You know it's bad when you're actually relieved when your son gets hit by the ball.  

It's one thing if your child is bad at something and doesn't care. Mason thinks he's a terrible artist and couldn't care less. And that's fine with me. But when your child desperately wants to be great at something and just hasn't quite gotten there yet, it's just miserably hard. 

He started to dread games. Loved practices! Dreaded games. I'd catch his eye as he was getting his helmet and they said it all. "Not good enough. The worst. The only kid who hasn't had a hit." I watched his confidence crumble. I watched the thief steal his smile every time a team mate got a hit. 

So, tonight we had a game. For whatever reason, his team was on fire. Maybe it was the free dinner at 3 Parrots Taco they were promised if they won. I don't know. But every single kid was smacking it out of the park. Well, not really out of the park, but they were smacking it. 

Except Mason. He struck out twice. 

But then it happened. No outs and we were in the lead. It wasn't a high pressure situation. Mason was two batters away. I'm sure there is some baseball lingo for that but I'm hoping you all know what two batters away means. 

I caught his eye and he gave me that look. That "i'm the worst" look that literally breaks my heart. I'm not kidding. Breaks my heart.

 And so I prayed. I prayed, with eyes closed and lips silently moving. 

"Lord, I know it's just a silly baseball game. I know. And I know you've got a lot going on right now in Oklahoma. 

(I'm being serious. Literally prayed those exact words. I felt like one of those kids in movies kneeling beside their beds asking for a puppy for christmas or something.)

But, Lord, if you could please just let mason get a hit, just one little hit... please." 

When I opened my eyes, Grant was standing there doing the pee pee dance. 

Now, there's something you need to know about grant. If he's doing the pee pee dance, you gotta go. NOW. 

As I already said, Mason was two batters from batting so I literally grabbed grant and ran to the boy's bathroom. 

Now there's something else you need to know about Grant. He's not a fan of public restrooms. Especially the dark boy ones at the baseball fields. He won't go in alone. So then we ran to the other side for the girl's restroom so I could go in with him. Both stalls were full. So we ran back to the boys. He refused. We ran back to the girls. He goes in and the moment he emerges from the stall I yell, "Wash your hands." as I sprint back to the Mason's game... right as I hear the crowd roar, "MASON!" "WAY TO BUNT, MASON!" "WAY TO GO SUNSHINE!" 

I had missed it. But there was my son. On first base. Grinning ear to ear. And I saw it. I saw him change. In that one split second where the ball hit that unbelievably small bat, it happened. He changed from a "can't" to a "just did". He could hit the ball. He did hit the ball. He earned his base. 

And that moment right there, well, that moment can just about make up for all the glares and frustration and heartbreak. 

He made it all the way home along with several other teammates. They were up by 7. 

When they took the field for the last inning, he got to play short stop. He was still smiling. He even made a sarcastic comeback to a teammate who was reminding him what shortstops do. He was a completely different kid. 

 When the team gathered at the end of the game, Mason was chosen to lead the "1-2-3 Go Rangers!" cheer. Oh, and they call him Sunshine. I'm not sure why, really. But it's not because they're teasing. I think it's partly because of his name. If there's anything i've learned about baseball over the last three months it's that names get changed into all sorts of weird things. Blake to Blaker, Peyton to Paytie... One kid they even call Rooster. But regardless of why they call him Sunshine, the nickname makes him part of the team. And tonight, his smile lit up the field better than any sun ever could.

I don't know what the next three games hold. He may strike out every time. But tonight, Mason was snagged by the magic of baseball. That miraculous moment when the thing you thought was most impossible became possible.

He's my son. And unfortunately that means he may always struggle with the thief of comparison. But not today. Today he won.

He wasn't the best on the team and that didn't matter one single bit.

Because, tonight, he was the best he's ever been.