I’m squished on orange plastic bleachers. Grandparents are on one side of me, two of my sons on the other. My husband is wandering the gym with his camera. The lens is at least a foot long. He is seeking out the best angle.
My knees keep hitting the back of the spectator in front of me. I am getting the same treatment from behind. It’s all unintentional. There’s not enough room. We all want to be there. We tolerate the occasional knee.
Today is an away game. Adapted softball. I played softball briefly in my youth, but this is played indoors with a whiffle ball and bat. And all of the players have an intellectual disability.
We are losing 0-11. I watch my son, Aaron, step up to the plate. He waves to the crowd. He winks at his deaf and hard of hearing teacher in the stands. She smiles back at him. I grin. The umpire helps Aaron adjust his stance.
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“Shoulder!” I hear my husband yell. We worked for an hour last weekend trying to get Aaron to pull the bat behind his right shoulder. He is stubborn. He plays his own game.
I watch as he taps the tip of the bat onto home plate, just like the pros do it. Tears threaten behind my eyes. The other team has a tough pitcher. His pitches are a little high and Aaron swings at everything. Despite our coaching.
I inadvertently slide forward and my knees hit someone’s dad. “Sorry!” I say. He waves it off. I crane my neck to watch my boy. Eyes puddling. Fists clenched. I’d like to cross and uncross my legs but there is no room.
Aaron swings at the first pitch, as he does, and misses, as he sometimes does. He looks at the crowd with a smile. He shakes his hips to loosen up. A little dance. He taps home plate again.
“Let’s go Aaron!” I hear from the crowd. It’s from someone I don’t know. I smile. I fight back the tears. The bleachers are packed.
He swings again. This pitch is low, but Aaron connects. The ball sails behind the catcher and bounces off the gymnasium wall. Foul ball. The catcher pulls the facemask off of his tiny frame so he can find the ball. It rolled under the bleachers and is retrieved by a parent. The umpire helps the catcher tighten the facemask.
The smell of popcorn fills the gym. Tennis shoes squeak on the wood floor. I debate whether I should try and take another photo or just let my eyes do the watching. I leave my phone in my purse.
The umpire signals ready to the pitcher who draws back his arm, pendulums it forward and releases the ball to Aaron. This is the third pitch. Aaron will certainly swing at it again.
He does. The ball lands in the catcher’s hand. The bat sliced through the air, missing the ball. The umpire tenderly announces strike three and the coaches signal for Aaron to return to the dugout. He does as he’s told, relying on the coaches to guide him through the innings.
Aaron walks back to his chair, smiling, looking for approval from the crowd who provide it with claps and smiles. He struts a bit. He sits down with his team.
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My tear finally drops. I wipe it away quickly for fear it will be misread by others. My boy did it. He stood up, in front of a crowd, and faced that pitcher. He showed courage. He navigated and participated in a game which at times is confusing and sometimes tricky. He holds his head high. He fist bumps his teammates. He dances when he catches a fly, shocked at the ball that lands squarely in his hands.
I watch an entire team of kids like him. And equally unlike him. They are all different, but they are full of generosity, patience and understanding. They are proud.
And I couldn’t be prouder.
by Marisa L. Arlt
Marisa Arlt has a degree in journalism and design from the University of Minnesota. She lives in Falcon Heights, MN with her husband and three sons where she writes, throws pottery and enjoys time outside.
