Thank you, autism. You too, baseball.
Thank you, autism. You too, baseball.
By Chris Sowers
I grew up watching as much baseball as I could find. Tried Little League for a couple of years, but it was a colossal failure. On the mound, I could only get the ball to the catcher after at least one hop, usually more. I wasn’t much better off the mound, relegated to right field. And each time I stepped to the plate, I had one goal in mind—earn a walk. Ideally, without swinging at a single pitch. A couple of decades later, I certainly didn’t expect to find myself, in all senses of that phrase, helping coach our middle son’s Little League team.
“Helping coach” gives me far too much credit. Owen’s team had two exceptional coaches already. Former college athletes, great with kids, understood that at eight years old, having enough fun to want to keep playing was the most important goal. No, they didn’t need my help with the baseball. But with eleven energetic second graders in the dugout at any given time, I served as an extra set of eyes, arms, and legs.
We had a routine during the games. I’d hang out in the dugout, shouting out the batting order, making sure each kid had a helmet before trotting out to home plate, trying to keep them focused on the game and not on filling one another’s hats with dugout dirt. I’d make sure each boy knew his position before heading out to take the field.
I had a purpose, and I knew exactly what it was. I wasn’t the head coach or even the assistant, I was the dugout support doing what needed to be done to keep things moving as smoothly as a bunch of kids playing a very patient game can possibly move. Fulfilling that purpose, knowing that I had a specific job and that it was helping the team, was more satisfying that I ever would have thought it could be.
***
There are very few times when we know our exact purpose. Very few times when we know what the specific expectations are. When we know why we’re here. Most of the time we’re just finding our way, fumbling along until luck strikes and we get something right. Most of the time, we’re just wandering the base paths hoping to trip on a base.
***
We were in a meeting to find out the results of our youngest son’s recent testing. There were a couple of school psychologists there, along with the school corporation’s Director of Special Education. We were in a kindergarten classroom, sitting on little kindergarten chairs around a little kindergarten table. A box of kindergarten tissues in the middle of us. We were all dressed for work, the Special Ed Director in a suit. There were laptops open on the little table typically reserved for oversized yellow pencils and finger paints.
There was much explanation of test procedures and methodology. Lots of praise for what a sweet boy Gabe is and what great parents we must be. The build-up, leading to the diagnosis.
They looked at me as they told us that Gabe falls on the autism spectrum. Janet would tell me later that they’d asked her previously how I would react to a diagnosis—apparently it’s the dads who typically go into denial while the moms accept what some part of them already knows and get down to the business of how to help and what to do next.
But in that moment, listening to their words, something happened. Something fell into place. An internal switch was flipped. And I felt it. Sudden warmth, like I was being wrapped in a blanket. Gently squeezed. And there was a very quiet whisper, “This is why you’re here.”
I think it’s the only time God has talked to me. Or maybe it’s the only time I’ve listened. In that moment, I discovered my purpose. Yes, to be the best husband I can and the best father I can be to our two older boys. But maybe even more so, to help raise this special child who will someday do something extraordinary. We’ve been trusted with him because someday in some small corner of the world, he’s going to do something or be someone that makes that corner a better place.
All of that was in that whisper.
***
I listen for more whispers, hard. To be reassured that we’re on the right track, that the day-to-day struggles are all part of the plan. I tune in more. But most of the time it just feels like wandering the base paths.
For now, purpose is enough. Maybe the purpose of it all is the search for purpose, and when you find even just a bit of it everything else starts to fall into place.
We grab the catcher’s gear and help them suit up while giving a pep talk. We trot out to first base to pat them on the back when they hustle out a ground ball. We call out the batting order. And we know, somehow, we’re fulfilling a purpose.
Maybe there will be more whispers later. For now, it’s just the first inning.
This was the runner-up for the 2023 Jackie Mitchell Creative Nonfiction Prize.
Chris Sowers is a freelance writer, editor, and writing coach living in central Indiana. His work has appeared in Adelaide, Remington Review, and Minnow. He is also the founder and editor of the literary magazine Tell Your Story, available on Amazon and at www.medium.com/tell-your-story.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.
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