If you follow my FB and Twitter posts, you already know I've got big mama bear love for my son and it's because of this love I'm sure his participation in Little League Baseball is going to kill me. No, I'm not exaggerating. I'm talking Redd-Foxx-this-is-the-big-one kind of kill me.
It's been a heck of a season. Some losses, some wins and some of those wins were awfully close. As the level of competition increases, so does my reaction to the games.
T-ball, really who gets amped up about t-ball games? The kids are all so cute and no one keeps score so it's fun for all involved, including the parents. During his coach pitch seasons, I got nervous every time he was at-bat because I knew he would be upset if he struck out. Machine pitch brought a whole other level of frustration for him, but he rose to the occasion though my anxiety at each game grew. He is now at the AA level, which is referred to as "kid pitch" because it's the first level where the children pitch to the batters. My son pitches, plays first base and is the clean-up batter. While I'm so very proud of him, I am really alarmed by my emotional reaction to the games.
When he's on the mound, I hold my breath with every pitch. When he's at-bat, my heart thunders in my ears, a silent mantra of
please don't strike out echoing in my mind. One game, we were two runs behind literally in the last minute of the game and my son was the next batter. The balls and strikes piled up. He faced a full count, two outs and I
could...not...watch. I averted my gaze until I heard the crack of the bat. As he rounded first and second and the winning runs came home, I jumped up and cheered. Then I promptly sat down because I nearly passed out. Seriously, yellow haze, lightheadedness, my stomach dropped to my feet. I was shaking as I sank into my folding chair.
How freaking absurd? I am not a Victorian lady in a corset who swoons at the slightest shock and yet I almost hit the deck in public. The medic hubby explained it to me as a vasovagal episode due to a sudden onset of strong emotions. Yeah, whatever.
Last night they played a very exciting quarterfinal playoff game. Again, I laughed, I cried, I cheered and I know my blood pressure soared at times. It's not because I would be upset or disappointed if he didn't do well--he knows I'm proud of him no matter what--but I knew
he would be upset, disappointed and angry with himself if he let his team down.
I want so badly to shield him from the pain and regret of failure, but I also know that's part of life. Hey, we learn more from our failures than we do from our successes. Still, failing sucks. The only thing that sucks more is watching someone you love more than life itself suffer.
Yes, I know it's only Little League and yes, I know no one's life depends on anything he's doing right now. Still, it's so hard to watch him flap his wings and try to take flight all on his own. But I will watch and I will celebrate his successes and I will pick him up when he falls...even if it kills me.
You hear that, Elizabeth? I'm coming to join ya, honey! ;)
