Big moment in a big game

Charlie’s Little League catapulted into first place on Friday night with a decisive victory against the league’s then-first-place team.

Charlie played second and third base. He knocked down – and nearly snared – a line drive hit to his right. He cheered on his teammates. Backed up every throw from the catcher to the pitcher. Communicated the number of outs and where the play was to constantly.

It was beautiful to see. It’s also something he does in every game.

But the fourth inning was different.

Charlie was at the plate with a man on second and two outs. He swung at the first pitch but was late for strike one. He stepped out of the batter’s box, and the first base coach – the vice principal of our high school (and therefore a teacher)  – told him that his swing was true, but he needed to swing earlier.

Don’t cock the bat as the pitch is thrown, he explained. “Just be ready to swing. Catch up to that ball.”

On the second pitch, Charlie swung again and missed.

Strike two.

He stepped out of the batter’s box again, and once again, the first base coach spoke to him from down the line.

“Better, but you’re still a little behind. Swing hard and fast,” the coach said.

Charlie returned to the batter’s box, took his stance, and waited for the pitch. When it came, Charlie swung, doing precisely what he was told, and connected with the ball in a way he never had before. He smacked the ball into centerfield for a single, scoring the man on second.

Standing on first base, the coach approached him, bumped fists with him, and said a few words. Charlie nodded, smiled, and then looked across the diamond to the third base coach for the signal.

He would eventually steal second base and score on a single by a teammate.

After Charlie hit the ball and stood safely on first base, Elysha turned to me. “Are you crying?” she asked.

I was not.

There is a difference between crying, which involves some form of verbal exhortation, the gulping of air, and possibly snot, and what I was doing, which was shedding a tear.

It was admittedly an odd response. Charlie has certainly hit the ball before. In the second inning, he hit the ball down the first baseline but was out when the first baseman snagged the ball for the force out.

But this was different. I watched Charlie listen to the coach. Think. Process the information. Adjust. I saw confidence that I had not seen before. I saw poise. I saw a boy who wanted to be coached, and I watched a coach who knew precisely what Charlie needed to hear to be successful.

It was a big deal for Charlie. A solid line drive to the outfield. His first hit to the outfield.

It was a big deal for me, too.

So yes, I shed a tear or two. And yes, I shed a couple more every time I think about that moment.

But it wasn’t just me who recognized the importance of that moment. At the end of the game, as the team gathered in right field and took a knee to listen to the coach’s post-game meeting, Charlie was awarded the game ball.

Best start to a Memorial Day weekend ever.

Elysha and I talked later about how fortunate we are to have so many incredible human beings in our children’s lives. From Little League to Scouting, our kids are blessed with these remarkable adult volunteers who give their time and energy to help our kids become better, more successful, happier people.

We’re so incredibly grateful.

You can’t ever have enough positive role models in your child’s life.