A Career
A Career
By Francois and Nic Bereaud
February 2006: San Diego CA.
The previous June, Nic had asked for a baseball glove for his tenth birthday. Shit, I thought I’d dodged that bullet. I’d coached his youth soccer team for three years. Neither of us were much good at it, but we’d endured. I figured we each had one season left. He’d also played youth basketball – poorly – but the games were quick and fun. But baseball? I’d had a miserable time in Little League gathering one hit per season over three years. And the games were long and the parents intense. Shit. But he was an obsessive kid, I knew an idea, once planted, would stick.
The glove was black and cheap but brand name, Wilson maybe. Nic would remember. I knew enough to know that we lived in a community where Little League was important and that he’d be five years behind some kids. We played catch. I hit ground balls off his shins until it got dark. I found the closest batting cages and watched him swing until I was unwilling to spend more money on tokens.
He was assigned to the Volcanoes, Minors division, Coach Abel. There were a few weeks of practice before the first game. I tried not to watch any of it. And then there was this. For months, Nic had one question for me: “Dad, if I hit a home run in my first at-bat, will you cheer?” I assured him that I would, but I also stressed that there were many outcomes of an at-bat, of which a homer was one of the least likely. I emphasized strikeouts, ground-outs, and walks.
The big day arrived. The game was on a make-shift field behind the middle school. I showed up just before the first pitch and stood atop the small bleachers. I was impressed to see that a decent fence had been erected and the baselines were freshly chalked. The umpire was suited up and kids looked like mini-pros in their full uniforms. We had ourselves a baseball game.
The Volcanoes batted first. The lead-off hitter, a girl who appeared to be one of the team’s bright spots, walked on some wild pitches. The next kid struck out on some wild pitches. Nic was up. A runner on base with one out. Dammit, a pressure situation. What the hell am I thinking? I shifted weight from one leg to the other.
First pitch right down the middle, bat stays on shoulder, strike one. Oh no, the pitcher is settling in. Settling in? He’s ten. I’m already an insane parent. Second pitch, repeat of the first. Strike two. The assistant coach calls out, “Nic, you can swing.” I bite my lip. I knew this was a bad idea. The third pitch looks exactly like the first two.
Except Nic swings. And he connects. And the ball sails. To right center or left center. I have no idea. But it sails over some kid’s head and lands on the other side of the fence. Which makes it a home run. A real home run. Nic jogs around the bases. The coaches probably yell something celebratory. I can’t say.
I stand stunned, body frozen. I don’t cheer.
***
May 2018: Instagram post a few hours following a brutal season-ending loss for the CSULA Golden Eagles in the CCAA (Div II) Conference Tournament. Stockton CA.
It had to come to an end. All things do. I’ve played my last baseball game. It sucked. I shed a tear as I write this but I find comfort in knowing that nothing in my life has been as important to me as this beautiful, difficult, stupid, frustrating, and wonderful game. I owe so many people thank yous and I could never cover them with due respect … but to my coaches: I thank you for your wisdom and guidance. I will be stealing everything I’ve learned. To my family: thank you for always supporting me … driving me to games, buying me cleats, sitting in the sun, coming to see me play because you knew I loved it … I cannot ever thank you enough. To my teammates: I owe it all to you. I’d be nothing without my team. The Volcanoes, White Sox, A’s, A’s, Torrey’s, The Conquistadors, The Vaqueros, The Halos, and the Golden Eagles, and anyone else I’ve played with. You guys are family and you’ve given me meaning. Thank you to everyone who’s ever rooted me on or wished me good luck or come to watch me play. This game means so much to me and the fact that people cheered me on to play a game, is still hard to believe. Not sure what to do next … I guess I’ll figure it out. Thank you.
***
In twelve years, a boy becomes a man. A dad gets grayer. It remains a bad idea to throw behind the runner but the efficacy of bunting is debated.
Baseball is rough on the parent. It’s not a team sport. There’s a whole lot of nothing then, with little warning, your kid’s in the spotlight. Guy on second, two outs, down a run, late innings. He’s up. It’s torture and, more often than not, failure. The successes amplify the pressure. You wince whenever someone shouts, “Hit a bomb.” You hope the kid is oblivious.
Coaches talk incessantly. Metaphors relating the game to life are as abundant as sunflower seeds. Night games are too cold, day games too hot.
You miss it.
Francois Bereaud is a husband, dad, full-time community college math professor, retired youth soccer coach, mentor in the Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. He writes when he can and you can find his work in print and online.
Nic Bereaud is a former college baseball standout living in Los Angeles who wants a dog. His current obsession is golf. His father believes he’s a latent writer.