Your Face Looks Like a Bomb Ready to Explode

The HOKA baseball dads will crush your spirit if you let them. Thich Nhat Hanh. New tunes.

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Come on down. — AJD

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My son had his first-ever Little League tryouts yesterday. He loves baseball, and part of me didn't want him to try out because I'm afraid once he realizes that baseball is not wiffleball and that he won't be the first 7-year-old drafted in the major leagues or that it's unlikely that he'll ever hit five home runs in one inning as he does in the backyard, that it might extinguish some of the joy it brings him right now. I know this is foolishly overprotective, and I will only cause more problems if I never let his heart get trampled but, God, I love that he loves baseball right now. I love this moment in time.

My son's been a little monomaniacal about his interests in his short life — first with dinosaurs, then IDLES and drums, and now it's baseball. All of these interests occupied every hour of every day for six months to a year, and then, poof, it's on to something else. One day, he's roaring from the minute he wakes up and can tell me what a "therizinosaurus” used to eat and its size compared to an elephant, and then one day later, dinosaurs no longer matter. That’s how it goes.

Baseball has been around since last spring, so we're approaching the expiration date if organized Little League discourages him, breaks his spirit, tramples his heart.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I had an annoying tension that started to rattle me about an hour before we were supposed to leave for the tryout. He didn't have his glove. He didn't have spikes. He didn't shower. All of these things weren't his fault but caused more anxiety and then, finally, anger. "WHERE IS YOUR GLOVE!?" I was badgering him to make him feel bad because I was anxious, and I needed somewhere to put that anxiety. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" he shouted, stomping around the house looking for another glove.

This five-minute Little League tryout will not determine his ability to succeed in life, but it felt like it could be, and I had already not prepared him adequately enough. This was my fault. My wife gently pulled me aside and said to tone it down. "He's nervous," she said. Of course, he is. How could I forget that?

When I was his age and in my second year of Little League, I overthrew a ball to first base during the last inning of what seemed like the most important game in the history of baseball. I knew I'd sailed it, and my stomach collapsed as the first baseman desperately tossed his glove in the air to knock it down, but it was useless. I pathetically held my glove to my chest as I stood there and waited for all the runners to score. I put my glove over my face, but the tears ran hard and heavy. When I got home, my father pulled me into my bedroom. "If you ever cry on the field again, I'm gonna come out there, pull your pants down, and beat ya."

I often promised myself and my son that I wouldn't be that dad. But I can feel the shadows of those promises, maybe because my father thought he'd failed me as well — raising such a crying-on-the-field pussy. I guess he reacted so shamefully because he thought of himself as weak and inadequate in all the stupid ways men always have. I forgive him for that, though. I'm not gonna hang this one on him.

We arrived 30 minutes early because I didn't want to be late, but the tryouts ran 2 hours behind. So we sat and watched all the other HOKA dads and their nervous 7-year-olds warm up. He didn’t like to wait and even asked if we could leave a couple of times. I wanted to leave, too. Nothing was here for us but the inevitability of grown-up disappointments. No one will ever know we were here if we sneak away early. We can head to the backyard and hit 12 home runs in one inning. Break all the records, win all the games.

“Nah, let’s stay put. It won’t be much longer.” He mumbled something harsh, but I bought him a cheeseburger and a Prime sports drink, which he insisted I try.

“It’s so good even though it’s made by a terrible person named Logan Paul,” he said.

He smiled at me because he knows I find it amusing when he says certain celebrities are terrible, even though it’s not nice to call anyone terrible, even if they are Logan Paul.

My son finally got called to the dugout with his group and was waiting to be shoved onto the field and into the heartless arena of this godless life so other HOKA dads could evaluate him to determine if they’d like to put him on their team or reject him outright and never let him breathe clean air again.

Speaking of God: I ran into a guy I knew from Al-Anon at the snack shack. It was a relief to find him there because then I could tell someone in the same setting how this moment reminded me so much about the worst parts of my dad without it all being too off-putting and weird. "Why do I feel like I'm going to hear you share about this next week?" he said.

I don’t know about that. Maybe I can work out all that’s grinding me in this essay.

My boy did fine, by the way. He fielded his slow grounders. He caught two balls at first base. He threw two balls from the pitcher’s mound that almost reached the plate. He hit one out of the three coach’s pitches. He ran around the bases without falling. Then it was over, and the next nervous 7-year-old went.

We were walking back to the car, and he was smiling and completely satisfied with his performance.

"My throws were terrible, but I did everything else okay."

"We can work on that later," I said.

When we got home, he threw off his uniform, opened his computer, and watched more baseball.

He'll be fine. We're all gonna be fine.— AJD

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