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Family: Put him in coach, for sure he is ready

It’s the bottom of the ninth with two out.
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It’s the bottom of the ninth with two out.

The batter steps up to the plate, hoists the bat to his shoulder with an air of authority. He fans the air a couple of times, returns the bat to his shoulder and faces the pitcher with a resolute look on his face.

He is ready.

The pitch comes in, slow and to the outside and the batter swings, connects and the ball sails deep into left field.

The fielder goes back, way back, reaches up and to everyone’s surprise, snags the ball in a most magnificent catch.

The side retires and the game is over.

Regretfully, the above scenario takes place only in my imagination.

In reality, I am in the bleachers watching the Mosquitoes play. It is the second game of the season and for some players, no doubt, it is the second game of their life.

The game, so far, has been mostly comprised of the pitcher and the catcher playing catch, while the batter stands patiently in the middle. Sometimes he or she swings, occasionally connecting with the ball. Sometimes the batter gets hit by the ball in which case he is allowed to go to the first.

It is a long game and slow. For me the only saving grace is the fact that my grandson is somewhere out there on the field.

Or so I think.

My eyes scan the field. I take my sunglasses off and scan the field again. Finally I walk over the coach.

“Excuse me, sir,” I say most respectfully because he is, after all, the coach. “Where is my grandson? I can’t seem to see him.”

I explain patiently who my grandson is. But, for some reason the coach, nice guy though he is, seems to have no clue who I mean even though I explain in great detail that he is the incredibly cute player with a shock of unruly dirty blonde hair and a boyish grin that absolutely melts your heart.

Finally, we figured out that a boy who meets that description is still in the dugout.

“We’re going to play him right away, ma’am,” he assures me, no doubt, hoping I will go back to the bleachers or maybe even go home.

I smile politely and resign myself to watching the endless game of catch between pitcher and catcher.

The sun begins to set. The lady sitting beside me tells me about her tomato plants and how she needs to get home to plant them. Instead, here she is sitting at a ball game.

I don’t think she is happy about it.

I think about my garden. I think about my to do list that has nothing checked off. I glance at the setting sun and know that when the day ends and I climb into bed that status won’t have changed very much at all.

I see my grandson. The coach did put him in. He put him in as catcher so he’s getting lots of action.

And as I watch him I think about how short the ball season is. I also think about how short the season of childhood is. Before we know it, those little guys out there on the ball field will no longer be little guys. They will have outgrown their jerseys and their ball gloves will be too small. And, in less than a heartbeat, they will be playing much bigger games in a much bigger league.

And we will remember the short, short season of their childhood and wish we could have even a few of those precious moments of that childhood back.

And as I ponder those thoughts I have a feeling, that even though to do lists don’t get finished and gardens might get planted just a little later than they should, I’m right where I belong.

My mind returns to the present and I see the game has progressed without me.

“Cover home,” I yell to the catcher who is just standing there at home plate swatting mosquitoes, oblivious to the runners rounding the bases.

“Oh my goodness,” I think to myself. “That coach needs some help.”

Treena Miekle is the editor of the Rimbey Review. She lives in Sylvan Lake.