So the bases are loaded and it’s the last play of the game. There are two outs. The score is tied. They need this win to move on in the tournament finals. This is the kind of situation they set up in the movies, except that it happened in real life. If it was a movie, there would be tension music and slow motion. The wind would stop. My boy–the one for whom I endured the throws of morning-afternoon-all-night sickness nine years ago—gets up to bat.

Oh my. I’m so glad that I wasn’t there (OK, not really). Really. I would’ve had heart palpatations. I can’t handle stress. Coach would’ve had to call a time out to turn around and tell me to BREATHE.

The pitcher winds up. My son loads… CRACK! A grand slam!

mcgThe story would be better if he got two strikes called on him and then slammed it, but it didn’t happen that way. Still, it’s the moment every little boy dreams about, and it happened. There is also the moment where the outfielder jumps over the fence to catch the would-be homerun for the final out, but that is for another time, another play, another dream. The reason it gives me pleasure to write about the grand slam is because my son would never mention it himself. He’s incredibly low key. He doesn’t break his arm patting himself on the back.

I still wish he wanted to play the piano, though. He likes books and baseball instead, and he’s very good with babies. He likes raw onions on his sandwich. He likes his sisters, his church, and his dad.

I will keep him.