We’re at the Algonquin College sports dome yesterday for Zechariah’s baseball camp. Doris and I know that he’s extremely serious when it comes to baseball, so we’re walking a fine line where we try not to wipe out his competitive nature in favor of “just having fun”. Case in point last night. During a fielding drill, he makes a nice grab off the coach’s “hit” but hurries the throw to first. Generously, the runner is called “safe” (whoa, does that smack of bias?), and Zak, still on his knees in his fielding position doesn’t like the call; his body language says everything. He looks over at me, and I resist the urge to offer any advice. Instead, I give him the gesture that we’ve all seen from the catcher when a pitcher is struggling with control - hands out, as if pushing an object to the ground, settle down, with a concurrent nod of the head, you’ve got good stuff. His next attempt is predictable: he’s so eager to record the out that he bobbles the fielding and isn’t even close to getting the runner. I meet his gaze with a shrug of the shoulders and a tilt of the head - no big deal, we’ll get him next time. It doesn’t work - I can see he still wants to nail the runner (if not the coach).
Now, I’m not nearly as competitive as my son, I blame my wife for those genes. During school, late at night, I would often find her in the arcade, playing pinball (she’s actually pretty good), determined to even the score with the machine. “Just one more game….” she would say/plead. To suggest otherwise was to invite the kind of look I was getting from “the boy” now. The “look” was a combination of genuine surprise, mixed with pity - You really don’t get it, do you? I have to win. All this, of course, before she would practically strip search me for twenty-five cents. Ahhh yes. Young love.
Zakky heads over to me on his water break, and I can resist the urge no longer. “Just take your time, you’re rushing your throws.” He hands me back the water bottle, never taking his eyes off of mine.
“I’m not rushing.” he challenged, with a tone that suggested the subject wasn’t open for debate. I hear other parents behind me, stifling their amusement at my position. Discretion being the better part of parenting, I decide that perhaps this isn’t the time - and besides, his expression reminds me so much of my wife’s right then that I half-expected him to start roughing me up for a quarter. As he made his way to the next station, he turned back to face me.
“And he was “out”.”
