I just got home from Ryan’s softball game- the girls won 12-0, moving to the third round of playoffs- Go Falcons!
There was a family in the stands with a 9 month old (I heard her say his age) and what looked like a 2 1/2 year old. The older child was acting like, well, a 2 1/2 year old. He was running up and down the ramp of the bleachers with boundless energy and making a lot of noise. His mom kept trying to get him to stop running and sit still. Stop it, stop it, she kept saying, exasperated.
I turned to Ryan’s friend, who had come to watch the game and said, If Grayson could do that, he could run and bang, and make as much noise as he wanted, for as long as he wanted. And I mean it. I wanted to tell that mom to be thankful for her healthy child, that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing for his age. To let him use his legs to stomp on the metal bleachers- who cares how much noise he makes- we are at a softball game, not church. He’s healthy, and little- let him be.
Grayson’s daddy is a coach. As he gets older, we will hopefully be spending a lot of time in bleachers cheering his teams. And it probably won’t look at all like we had imagined. Grayson may never chase down a foul ball to throw back over the fence to the umpire. He may never get to run the bases after a game. He may never even eat a hotdog or sno-cone. The stuff of childhood, of being in a sports family, he may never do.
I’m sad about this tonight.