The Bullpen Gospels - Dirk Hayhurst [121]
“Your parents should be ashamed,” she declared.
“I got a whole bag of baseballs now, so they must have done something right.” The lady stared at me in confusion, then threw her hands up and walked away declaring I had a terrible attitude.
An inning later, a mother and her son approached the pen. I pretended to look out at the game, a boring one in which our starter dominated, effortlessly mowing through the Rough Riders. I faked interest in the on-field events, but in my mind I thought about going in to play Halo.
“Hello,” said the mother—another mother and her precious child who deserved a baseball, no doubt. I heard them speaking, but I didn’t immediately react. None of us did. Following the noble lady, a group of obnoxious teens came knocking at the pen and then some frat kids who tried their hand at heckling. Someone threw peanuts at us and called us monkeys in our cage. Then came more good ol’ drunk Texas boys. If we’d have said yes to everyone, we’d be out of balls. As it was, we were already out of patience. I thought the mascot was supposed to handle crowd-control issues, but it occurred to me he didn’t come out for the game today. Then I remembered that the grounds crew looked more cheery than usual…
“Hello,” said the mother again. “I have a little boy here who would really like to meet you.”
The boy jutted out from behind his mother’s leg. Shy blue eyes pressed down, timidly stealing glimpses of me from under the brim of his oversized ball cap. He had thin wisps of blond hair on a pale face and a smile waiting to blossom, if he could only find the courage to let it. If only someone would help him. His mother nudged him forward, but he resisted, comfortable in Mommy’s shadow.
“Hi there,” I said to the boy. I didn’t have to hand out souvenirs, but I could still talk with the boy. My words, however, made him cling to Mommy’s leg like a shy koala.
“Tell him your name,” his mother said, and he did, in a squeak of voice.
I repeated it back to him, adding, “Nice to meet you.”
The strong, silent type, he opted out of the conversation. I left my comfy Rough Riders bullpen chair and went to the railing in pursuit of the boy who had contentedly buried his face in his mother’s leg. “Hey there, buddy. Why so shy?”
He let one eye free. “It’s okay. You can talk to him,” his mother said, trying to encourage him not to suffocate on her kneecap. I steadied myself on the railing, squatting like a catcher, awaiting his attempt. “Tell him how old you are,” his mom coaxed. He didn’t speak, but offered me three tiny digits, instead.
“You’re a slider? That’s what it means when you wiggle your fingers like that. Are you a slider?”
“I’m three,” he said, letting the other eye free.
“Oh” I replied, “you’re three. Okay,” I said, holding up my fingers back to him. He giggled and flashed a smile he’d been waiting to offer. He let go of Mommy’s leg and faced me now. I smiled back at him.
We were about to have a good chat about the life and times of three-year-olds when his mother’s hand came down on my own, grabbing my wrist, and pinning it to the railing. My personal space was violated. I looked at the mother to scold her. Your kid’s cute, but there are dozens of cute kids here every night whose mothers want me to play Santa, and they don’t grab me when I’m in arm’s reach.
“Thank you for doing this for my son,” she blurted. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with him….” Her eyes began to crack, and drops formed at their edges. Her next words did not come out in the cheery tone she used to coax her son to speak, but fractured, in heartbroken gasps. “He has liver cancer, and it’s terminal….” she mustered. She tried to keep control, but her words