A Perfect Game
It's been a week since Caleb threw a perfect game.
I missed that game. (Sometimes we have other kids who need attention. Go figure.). But it's okay, because I've experienced it vicariously. I experience it every time somebody tells me what an amazing game it was, or how they felt after the game, or how their son, Caleb's teammate, prayed and prayed that he would be able to play whatever was hit to him so that Caleb could have the distinction of saying he threw a perfect game.
I've lived it in the Facebook posts, the pictures, the smiles on Caleb's face when it's mentioned. So, while I would've loved being there, I don't really feel like I missed it. (Besides, I couldn't have stood it. The pressure. The intensity. The emotions. I might've died before the end. When Caleb's playing baseball and something's on the line, I morph and I brood and I pace and it's pretty much as terrible as it is awesome. Not being there saved my nails and my sanity.)
Last night, the magnitude of what happened sunk in a little deeper when Caleb said that he would trade every one of his home runs for the perfect game. Every last one--even his first one, which was perfect because it told Coach Bules " Here ya go, you big jerk. Here's whatcha get for treating my team that way". And the third one, hit during last year's third place game against Holyoke, which effectively said, "We might be down, but we're not beat." The fourth one, his first in a Bomber's game, would've been hard for me to give up. But my feelings are irrelevant. My son pitched a perfect game. It's his to hold onto and cherish forever.
Or is it?
I submit that it's actually not. Sometimes, the great game of baseball is hard and unforgiving. In this case, the statisticians decided to be generous. Caleb gets to claim this game. But he didn't strike out every batter. He didn't make every play. Sure, he did something phenomenal and beautiful and commendable and, likely, something unrepeatable. He earned it. But so did his teammates.
Every one of those kids made amazing plays that night. Caleb remembers each play and knows that his teammates gave everything they had to make it happen. (When I asked him, he rattled the plays off so fast that I couldn't write them down. Clearly, he didn't realize what I was trying to do. But that's okay, because each play is etched into his memory of what happened that night.) So, though the scorebook says that Caleb did it, his heart knows the real truth: His team did it. Which makes it truly perfect.
And maybe, just maybe there'll be another one that I'll get so see.
Interested in Caleb's stats? Get ready!
7 innings
21 batters
73 pitches
11 strikeouts
19 balls
And the team's:
10 great fielding plays
1 perfect game
I missed that game. (Sometimes we have other kids who need attention. Go figure.). But it's okay, because I've experienced it vicariously. I experience it every time somebody tells me what an amazing game it was, or how they felt after the game, or how their son, Caleb's teammate, prayed and prayed that he would be able to play whatever was hit to him so that Caleb could have the distinction of saying he threw a perfect game.
I've lived it in the Facebook posts, the pictures, the smiles on Caleb's face when it's mentioned. So, while I would've loved being there, I don't really feel like I missed it. (Besides, I couldn't have stood it. The pressure. The intensity. The emotions. I might've died before the end. When Caleb's playing baseball and something's on the line, I morph and I brood and I pace and it's pretty much as terrible as it is awesome. Not being there saved my nails and my sanity.)
Last night, the magnitude of what happened sunk in a little deeper when Caleb said that he would trade every one of his home runs for the perfect game. Every last one--even his first one, which was perfect because it told Coach Bules " Here ya go, you big jerk. Here's whatcha get for treating my team that way". And the third one, hit during last year's third place game against Holyoke, which effectively said, "We might be down, but we're not beat." The fourth one, his first in a Bomber's game, would've been hard for me to give up. But my feelings are irrelevant. My son pitched a perfect game. It's his to hold onto and cherish forever.
Or is it?
I submit that it's actually not. Sometimes, the great game of baseball is hard and unforgiving. In this case, the statisticians decided to be generous. Caleb gets to claim this game. But he didn't strike out every batter. He didn't make every play. Sure, he did something phenomenal and beautiful and commendable and, likely, something unrepeatable. He earned it. But so did his teammates.
Every one of those kids made amazing plays that night. Caleb remembers each play and knows that his teammates gave everything they had to make it happen. (When I asked him, he rattled the plays off so fast that I couldn't write them down. Clearly, he didn't realize what I was trying to do. But that's okay, because each play is etched into his memory of what happened that night.) So, though the scorebook says that Caleb did it, his heart knows the real truth: His team did it. Which makes it truly perfect.
And maybe, just maybe there'll be another one that I'll get so see.
Interested in Caleb's stats? Get ready!
7 innings
21 batters
73 pitches
11 strikeouts
19 balls
And the team's:
10 great fielding plays
1 perfect game
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