summer's sweet spot

Last week my eight year old informed me that after "thinking for a very long time" he had decided that when he grows up he plans to be a baseball player. I could have told him the chances of that ever happening are extraordinarily slim and highly unlikely, but who am I to kill the dream? Instead, I said that was an awesome idea and I looked forward to watching all of his games. Because, seriously, I do.

Summer nights are never better than when they're spent in the pool or at a concert in the park. Catching fireflies in the yard, roasting marshmallows for s'mores and lying out in a tent under the stars, also contenders for the perfect late-June evening. But, truly, nothing says summer like pitching a folding chair on the sidelines of a ballgame and cheering for your kid and his team of ball-handling misfits, especially when a hit out of the infield is newsworthy, an out demands a standing ovation and a double play is an absolute miracle. And every kid, even on a losing night, gets his turn taking the game ball home.

Andrew and I have never pushed sports. Liam's interest in baseball, his enthusiasm for manning first base and donning the catcher's gear, his coolness in the batter's box and eagerness to be watched and cheered are actions and desires all his own. No one is making him suit up or putting career dreams in his head. He simply likes to play the game.

When Liam began baseball practice this spring and we learned he'd been assigned to the Braves, I told him my grandpa George, although he spent most of his life in Chicago, loved the Atlanta Braves. For some unknown reason, a huge sports fan and life-long coach, he'd chosen the Braves as his favorite baseball team. My son, who only knew of his great-grandfather through the fond stories my mom and I told, stood in the kitchen after his first practice holding his new cap and said, "I am going to do my very best on the Braves." And then added very seriously, "I'm going to make grandpa George proud."

I love that my son cares so deeply about playing well. I love that he waves to me from the outfield and runs to tell me to watch when he's up. I love that he plays for fun and, maybe a little, for the (unhealthy) snack some other parent brought to share when the game's over. I love that his hair curls out of his hat and that he has no idea that he's so darn cute in a uniform. I love that he's learning that playing smart wins the game. I love that he tries really hard. I love that he thinks he can make the dead proud.

No doubt about it, eight-year-old baseball is the summer sweet spot. There's nothing not to love.