I haven’t written in a while. By a while I mean I start every blog post in my head and let it ruminate for a long time. My words are silently edited and altered over and over until I have something that must be written down. Usually I have let it stew for so long that it all tumbles out of my heart faster than a firehose. I think that I just need to start writing in an unedited voice. Like a steady stream of conciousness that will flow freely until all the possible nouns and adverbs have been used.
Just now I was out walking the dogs. Not the hurried usual “please poop” so I can be done with this chore kind of walk. It’s a beautiful sunny day, one that we haven’t had in a long time. So all three of us sauntered in the sun, shying away from the shade, slowing way down to really fill our senses with all this spring day offers.
Rocky and Gus and I came up over the hill to a little league practice. The boys playing could not have been more than 8 years old. I overheard the coach yelling directions to first base; “Ian that should have been you!” I stopped suddenly and maybe even gasped out loud because some of the moms on the sidelines turned around to see if I was some sort of stranger danger. Was this little brown Ian also wearing #2? Was he mischievous like my Ian was? A little bit distraction and a whole lot heart? This present day Ian was playing around with his friend Felix and only half listening to what the coach wanted him to do. Sounds all too familiar.
For our Ian, baseball was the sport he was playing when he died. It was also the one sport he wasn’t immediately gifted at and he had to work at it. And because he’s a teenage boy he was also lazy at the working at it. But no matter what, the kid was aggressive about being all in on the field and at practice. His last coach told us how coachable Ian was and that it really helped out when Ian was at practice and games because he set the tone for the energy of the team. It made letting his goofy antics slide by the coaches peripheral vision a little easier. And by goofy antics I mean walking on his hands to first base during a practice or shuttle runs instead of running on the feet that God gave him.
Ian played T ball when he was just a little guy. He wouldn’t play baseball again until he was 12 and it was the last possible year he could be in Little League. I can definitely say that it was the one sport he not only wasn’t gifted at, he just wasn’t that good. He was playing side by side with kids that had never put the bat down. I never heard him compare himself to the others and he just let himself love the sport. He was always asking either Kat or I to go play catch in the alley behind our house, or run up to the ball fields and hit. He even got Bella to hit around the wiffle ball a few times.
He did find something about baseball that he kicked ass at…he could steal bases like a motherfucker. He found a way to collect enough bad pitches and get on base. Then he would steal his way home. I miss watching those steals.
I think about his team a lot. I think about how confused they were when they found out about Ian’s suicide. That none of it makes any sense at all. Somedays the confusion is probably bigger than they can handle. And there, in that moment, when it all seems too much, that is when I hope that they reach out and grab a hand of someone who loves them and ask for help to make it through the night.