The Greatest Journey
Milestones
We talked of milestones on the weekend, after we celebrated our son’s Grade Seven graduation on Friday. Here in Vancouver, the public school system most often runs in two segments, the elementary school years up through grade seven, and in high school, grades eight through twelve. Our son has attended the same small elementary school since kindergarten, a wonderful community of about two hundred students, where kind, inclusive, and supportive behaviour is a way of life. The twenty-nine graduates in the Class of 2012 represent a variety of cultural, educational, and economic backgrounds; I watched some of these boys and girls grow, along with my son, from delightfully exuberant five-year-olds to the charming young people that they are today.
This week, they celebrated the end of that era, and their readiness to take life to the next level. They dressed up, each according to his or her personality, in suits, shirts and cool ties, and lovely dresses in all the colours of the rainbow. Between the morning and the afternoon, they blossomed into smart young adults, ready to take on the world. In their finery, they paraded down the red carpet to the stage, where they were feted and congratulated. Photos were taken, parents were hugged. And then, they partied. The music came on, and they hoovered food and drink like the teenagers that they almost are. The lights were dimmed, but instead of dancing, they played with balloons and glowsticks, like the children that they have only just been.
Our recent days have been filled with laughter and tears, excitement and anxiety, as our son’s world occupied ours almost to the exclusion of anything else. His week moved through sorrow and joy, and the need to be a balancing force for him took all the inner strength we had. On Friday, it came to its conclusion; on Saturday morning, he said that he felt different. It was then that we talked about milestones, and how, when you pass a true milestone on life’s journey, that you know it, because it changes you. Not in essence, yet deeply. You know that you have reached a new place, as surely as the “welcome” signs announce our arrival in a new town or country. He and his friends are sitting at the border of that new country now, and we will miss the place where they grew up, as surely as we will rejoice in their new home.
My Journey to Baseball
There are many kinds of journeys: the physical, the spiritual, and, lying somewhere in between, the journeys of taste and experience, as we develop an appreciation of art, lifestyles, food, and dress, other than those with which we grew up. Many of my journeys have been taken along the road of my parenthood. My life has become richer as I have followed the path of my son’s life, expanding to absorb things that had little or no importance in my world before his coming. I didn’t grow up a baseball fan, and didn’t come to the game until my son brought me there. He has played for two years now, drawing our family into the madness that is a Little League spring season: a hectic succession of practices, games, and tournaments that keeps us fully occupied for a good ten weeks. Our ordered world of family dinners and quiet evenings listening to music has been thrown into chaos, as we juggle practices and games with homework and bedtime, and debate the nightly question of what we shall eat, where, and when.
My son’s team has the fun of playing at what might be the prettiest Little League ballpark anywhere, a hilltop diamond with a view of the mountains. It is here, with the digital scoreboard lit up behind centre field, and the players’ names announced over the loudspeakers by younger siblings, that our son and his friends experience the joy of a big hit or a great catch, a perfect inning pitched, or a come-from-behind victory against the odds.
Baseball is a game of silences and stillness, punctuated by sound and movement: parental voices calling support as a new batter walks up to the plate, followed by the hush before the pitch. The sound of the bat hitting the ball unleashes cheers as the field explodes into motion: ball shooting through the air, batter racing for first base, fielders catching and throwing in an attempt to beat him there. Then the play ends, and the cycle begins anew.
This year, along with the happiness of gloves, balls, and bats, our son has had the sheer fun of playing on a team that has won most of its games. He has walked a little taller this spring (physically as well as metaphorically!) and anticipated games with a little more eagerness. While he still understands that winning isn’t everything, he has learned that winning can be fun, when it comes about as a result of teamwork and determination. There is joy in watching a player hit the ball who rarely does so; in seeing the boys praise and support one another; in witnessing the quick exchange of smiles or laughter during some quiet moment of the game. Late nights and missed dinners are made more than worthwhile by the camaraderie and positive attitude of these great kids, and the exuberance which bubbles forth from my son after every game.
