The Outfield
An old man laughs as he walks past me.
“That’s a pretty fancy setup you’ve got there,” he says. He nods his head and gestures toward my tent.
He’s not wrong.
I have cultivated a pretty fantastic setup for youth baseball games.
The sun is hot. It’s almost a hundred today, but it’s bearable - comfortable even- in the shade I’ve created with my UV-resistant tent.
I’ve spread a pretty blue-and-white striped blanket on the grass. I found the most comfortable (and aesthetic!) canvas butterfly camping chairs on the entire internet - so I open those and arrange my cooler as a makeshift side table between them. I’ve packed a Mary Poppins bag full of everything we could need for these 6 hours on the sideline.
Something you should know about me: you’ll rarely find me in the middle of the masses at a sporting event. I generally stand in the endzone. Or inhabit the sparsely populated landscape of the top stadium corner.
I am a sponge. I absorb other people’s moods like water.
I’ve left too many youth sporting events wearing emotions that were not mine.
So I watch the game from the cool shadows. Instead of listening to human chatter, I enjoy the buzzing of the bees.
I love this little shelter and am content
.
For 4 years now, I have loaded my wagon every other summer weekend to camp out at a ballpark.
For the first few, I pulled it right past the metal bleachers.
I kept going past the dugout and didn’t stop until I found an island in the outfield.
Then slowly, a few of the moms turned up at my makeshift front porch to say hello
.
One at a time, they made an effort to connect, which is something I struggle with. They took the time to walk over and initiate friendly, harmless conversation.
“Read any good books lately?”
“Did your daughter make that cheer team she tried out for?
“I’m running to the gas station, can I grab you anything?”
I allowed myself to respond to their effort; I felt myself begin to soften.
Is this how you make friends? I’m not sure I would remember what that even feels like.
I began to reciprocate. I’d wander to the hot, dry desert behind home plate to film my son at bat, and I’d linger for a few extra plays.
Over time, my visits stretched longer and longer. I slowly migrated closer to the tribe.
One day I realized - I hadn’t sat in the outfield for quite some time.
On a particularly hot afternoon, I was wilting. I’d had enough baseball. I wanted to go home and take a nap in the air conditioning. I was ready to throw in the towel.
Then, I looked up and saw a fellow Ti
ger-mom strolling up from the parking lot with two ice-cold Big Gulps. She handed me one.
She knew I’d love a Diet Coke. She made the effort. I never had to ask.
Our team’s fan gear last year had one word written on the front- FAMILY. I bought a t-shirt. My husband got a hoodie.
For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe this might be true.
Side by side, we’ve consoled sad, dirty, tired boys on long car rides home after heartbreaking losses. We’ve smiled and posed for pictures with medals behind home plate. We’ve shared picnic tables and and BandAids and water bottles and pink Starburst.
We have congregated in hotel lobbies and bumped into each other at random gas stations in the middle of rural Nebraska.
My son loves his teammates and we love their families. We’ve often commented how lucky we are to have such a great group to share this season of life with.
But some of them are leaving. The break wasn’t clean. It hurts.
We told our son last night.
I cried as I tried to find the words. Maybe the tears welling up in my eyes said what he needed to hear.
“It’s ok to not be ok with this.”
I want to take the sting of the loss and feel it for him, but I know I can’t. So I guess we’ll just have to share this sadness.
While I know that sports are sports and people move on… this team felt like something much more to me.
It was something much more.
When you walk through life so guarded with fences so high- even something as simple as venturing outside a sideline tent feels like a major act of faith.
It’s a small thing, yet it’s an enormous act of vulnerability.
Soon we’ll hold tryouts, fill the empty roster spots. We’ll move on next year with a slightly different group. There are plenty more games to play. Most of my favorite people are staying on.
But a season of our lives will come to an end when this group of boys packs up their big blue bat bags and files out of the dugout for the last time.
I know baseball weekends will never be quite the same for me again.
So I unload my SUV and head toward the fields like always.
The journey is a little longer. I pass the cluster of parents congregated by the fence.
I just keep walking.
Things aren’t so bad in the outfield.
It’s cooler and quieter, and I can set up my area the way I want it. There’s less dust and more room to breathe.
I watch my son jog to the mound to close out the last inning of a state championship game.
I enjoy a front-row seat when the left fielder makes the game-winning catch.
There’s enough distance to see the whole scene unfold. The boys converge into a sweaty mass of 11-year-old joy. Jumping and hugging and celebrating a win with their brothers.
I get to watch it all from a distance, and I’m grateful for this perspective.
I like it out here. I probably should have stayed here all along.
But I’m glad I didn’t.