Baseball Teaches This Fan a Lesson About Life

Being the baseball fan that I am, I was really excited heading into this season knowing Zach would be playing in the Majors division of his Little League. I was even more thrilled discovering that Zach's interest in the sport had grown even beyond what it had been last year. And I was ecstatic when he did himself beyond proud in tryouts when, on a cold, blustery day, with shifting, driving winds straight out of our beloved AT&T Park, he fielded like a pro. That performance led to his being selected early in the draft, setting the wheels in motion for what I expected would be his—and my—dream season.

I'm generally not one of those parents who live and die based on their kid's athletic performance. But as my hopes for what Zach could accomplish escalated, I started to feel like one. So when Zach told me after practice a few weeks ago that his arm was bothering him and that at one point, it had actually gone numb, I was concerned, but not terribly so. Blinded subconsciously by an unwillingness to accept that anything could derail how well he was playing, I told Zach to rest his arm when we got home and to let me know if it was still bothering him the next day. And then I basically forgot about it. Normally, I'd have worried. But I wasn't in that mode.

Finally, last Saturday, the big event arrived: Opening Day. Zach's team had practiced and scrimmaged Wednesday and Friday nights, then snuck in additional preparation during downtime that afternoon. Shortly before game time, Zach took a line drive from one of his coaches hard off his sternum. I wasn’t there and didn't know about it until later. But as I’d learn, it was going to impact him in a big way.

Minutes later, the game was underway. Right off the bat, it was clear Zach and his teammates were dragging. After going down in order in the top of the first, they took to the field, with Zach heading to left. He jogged out and was moving slowly, and I became frustrated, not aware that he’d been hurt earlier. But then things went from bad to worse when a ball hit to left went right by Zach, rolling to the fence. He trotted to the ball, bent down slowly to retrieve it, and then tossed it half-heartedly toward the infield. I was thoroughly confused, knowing how he'd been pumped up for days looking forward to this game.

When his team came off the field after giving up three runs, signs of the funk affecting them was etched on every one of the players' faces—particularly Zach's. The coach apparently noticed, and he made some changes pronto. After batting once—and striking out—Zach was pulled from the game. I couldn't blame the coach, given Zach's performance and the fact that they were trailing and playing lackadaisically. But I still wasn't happy. Suddenly, I was that hyper-competitive parent again, wishing I could snap my fingers and make my kid perform like Super Athlete.

A few innings later, Zach was reinserted in the lineup, and as fate would have it, he was left standing at the plate when a teammate tried unsuccessfully to steal in the final out of the game. Zach headed toward the dugout, dejected, and I knew we'd be having a heart to heart on the drive home. When we got to the car, he nearly started crying, telling me about the ball that had hit him and explaining that when he'd taken the field in the first inning, he could barely breathe, let alone bend over. Then, when he'd tried to throw the ball and salvage the play, the numb-elbow-and-pain-down-the-arm syndrome had struck again, only much worse this time. And, he said, by the time he'd made it back to the dugout, his hand was shaking and so weak that he could barely clutch a water bottle.

At that point, I did a complete emotional one-eighty. Here I'd been disappointed that he'd been giving less than 100% effort, yet he'd been pushing himself to perform and not admit that he was hurting, and hurting pretty badly. I felt so ashamed.

We iced Zach up when we got home, but it helped very little. By morning, he was worse. His arm had kept him up much of the night, and he had tenderness in his inner elbow and pain when he rotated his hand downward—classic signs of Little League Elbow, which affects a child's growth plates, as repetitive throwing causes soft, developing cartilage to crack and sometimes separate from the arm bone. Kelly and I talked, and after reading online that any boy Zach's age experiencing elbow pain after throwing should be evaluated immediately, we agreed he needed to see a sports medicine specialist.

So, two days later, Zach was x-rayed and evaluated. The good news was that he didn't have Little League Elbow. The bad news was that he had two forms of tendonitis, and he'd be spending at least four weeks in therapy, prohibited from throwing. When I heard the doctor say four weeks—and knowing that was the best-case scenario—the competitive dad started to surface again. But then I saw Zach's long face and obvious sadness, and I got over it. The consoling, supportive dad took over, and I heard myself telling Zach this was good news overall and that it could have been much worse. Finally, the realistic, pragmatic dad had arrived, and just in time.

Zach began his therapy the next day, and he loved the fact—as did I—that his therapist, hand-selected by his doctor, was a former minor league pitcher for the Oakland A's. And it was icing on top of the cake when later in the day, Kelly and I received a message from Zach’s coach telling us what a wonderful kid we have, how sorry he was to hear about the injury, and how badly he wanted Zach back on the team. Kelly and I shared the message with Zach and told him in no uncertain terms how proud we were of him and what he’s already accomplished regardless of whether he makes it back to the lineup this season. And watching his reaction—and sharing a group hug—I was reminded that as much as I love baseball, I love that kid a whole lot more.

Zach and I are both students of the game. But it’s pretty clear that this season, I’m the one who’s being taught the bigger—and ultimately, more valuable—lessons.

My Three Fish

Judging by the wakes they leave behind them, missing a few swim lessons because of heavy smoke from our local fires hasn't had much of an effect on the older two Z fish...er, kids. In each case, they’ve returned to the pool without missing a stroke, easily keeping up with and even surpassing their peers. Lucky them. I guess when you're born to be in the water, you can get away with skipping a class or three.

As he and Zoë wrapped up their latest sessions of lessons at the YMCA this morning, Zach completed the highest-level class offered and was invited to join the Y's swim team. While I dread swimming a single lap, Zach finds doing them in quantity and at top speed a joy and a challenge. He's approached each new stroke with gusto, and he takes it personally if he's not the fastest swimmer not just in each class, but also on each lap.

Though he'll probably opt for the very strong city team over the Y's, that decision will wait until next summer since he's attending camp next week and starting school two weeks later. Given that he's expressed an interest in being a lifeguard, too--recognizing that it's a much better summer job than fast food or retail--I suspect this is just the start of things for Zach and swimming.

Zoë, meanwhile, who was absolutely terrified of water at the beginning of last summer and begging to drop out of lessons when this one began, today completed the second-highest class at the Y with the recommendation that she next move up to the class Zach just completed.

Though her backstroke needs some work, her confidence and form in the forward crawl have grown by leaps and bounds in the past few weeks, with Zoë following in the footsteps of her brother, literally flying by everyone else in her class. And she's become quite the diver, too, which is a major accomplishment for someone who just last summer was afraid to put her head under water.

As if it wasn’t enough to have two fish in the family—three if you count Kelly—it’s becoming obvious that Zienna will soon be hot on Zoë and Zach's caudal fins. With each passing day, Zienna has become less and less willing to "go play with the kids" in the Y's child watch room, realizing fully that she is missing out on swim time her siblings are enjoying. "I go swimming" quickly became her mantra to the childcare volunteers, and it has become more and more emphatic each day. She's then typically begged me for the same all afternoon. On the occasions that we've taken her to the pool after Kelly's come home from work, she's been as happy as if we'd given her a pony—and she's never wanted to leave.

Obviously and fortunately, the kids got Kelly's fish genes. And I'm having a blast watching them grow their gills.