My son plays in his 12th baseball game of the season.
During the first inning, he struggles on the mound-- walking a couple of batters, letting go a couple of hits.
But he keeps it together, allowing only one earned run.
(Once back in the dugout, he discovers his blood sugar is dropping fast. He eats a couple of glucose tabs, some peanut butter crackers.)
Over the next two innings, he gets two solid hits -- driving in five runs.
(And his blood sugar begins drifting upward. He steps out of the dugout, lifts his shirt, and reconnects his pump. I give him a tiny bolus of insulin, while his eyes remain fixed on the teammate who steps up to the plate.)
In the bottom of the final inning, he's catching.
His pitcher hits the second batter he faces and then -- frustrated and upset -- walks several more.
My son heads out to the mound, removes his mask, puts a hand on his friend's shoulder and tells him something that none of us in the stands can hear.
Something that causes both boys to smile.
He returns to his position behind the plate, squats down low, left hand resting on the small of his back.
And his buddy throws him a perfect strike.
Their team wins-- their 10th victory of the season.
(Though to me, every time my son steps on the diamond, he wins.)
Wednesday, June 06, 2007