Bench

Matthew really wants to hone in on his baseball skills this year, so we decided to sign him up for something called Fall Ball. Tonight was his second game, and unfortunately they got slaughtered. As Makayla and I sat on hard bleachers full of distraught parents, it was painful to watch (in more ways than one). One mess up after another - they seemed to be on a roll.

From where we were sitting, the other team seemed so much bigger. I'm sure the kids were pretty much the same size as our boys, but when you see the other uniform cross home plate twelve times for every zero for us - well, it makes those ten year old kids look like giants. (And I don't mean the San Fransisco kind.)

After the game, our coach gathered the boys into a huddle. He had some words of encouragement for them, and then doled out information about Thursday's practice. No smiles, no enthusiasm . . . just hum drum.

Excitement did begin to stir with the news of cupcakes. Did somebody say cupcakes? With all of the frosting that sucker had on it, the sugar high alone would make up for any clobber.

I guess defeat is just a part of life. You win some, and you lose some. Makayla didn't seem particularly upset about the score, and although I would have liked to see a few more runs - I wasn't crushed. But for a ten year old boy out there giving it his best - the loss was misery.

After we'd been home for a while, and after Matthew had showered, he sat tearful over a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I had one of their favorite shows on to help them wind down. The episode seemed to lift him out of his pout, and few minutes later he was off to bed with thoughts about the next day.

I began thinking about something that struck me as we meandered in and out tonight. As we walked to and from the baseball field, I noticed some benches lining our path. A man's name was etched in stone on each one of the benches, indicating that the bench was there in remembrance of him. I got to thinking, how do you get a bench named after you?

He was probably a remarkable player - a real hitter, maybe even the Babe Ruth or Barry Bonds of Pedretti Park. He was not famous enough to strike my familiarity, but I'm sure he was very dear to somebody - if nobody else, the guy who makes benches.

I really did wonder what his story was. My best guess? He was probably, at one time or another, simply a ten year old boy who overcame a defeat or two.

. . . and how he handled the obstacles of life, cupcake or no cupcake - probably won his name on that bench.