Season's End

Tonight was my boy's last rookie baseball game. They took fourth place in the league.

It was an exciting, heartbreakingly adorable stretch in which the Sidewinders finished their regular season with only three losses, then won three playoff games to make it to this evening's semifinal.

In the last inning, the score was 8 - 7. We were losing. The first boy hit the ball harder than any of us thought possible - and it stuck right in the pitcher's glove. One out. Next, Conor came up, fought off two pitches, and got a hit. The next guy hit a double and there he was: Conor on third base with one out.

And then we all watched his hopeful little face as he silently begged his teammates to hit him home and tie the game. I stood by the dugout, fixed on his nervous, puppy-ish frame . . . and sent every loving thought I had to him. I hoped he'd get to touch home safely.

The next boy struck out.

And the boy after that hit a ball right to first base. Three outs. Game over. Sidewinders lose.

Conor stood on third base for a moment longer, as if he couldn't believe he'd never get to score. Then, he took off his batting helmet and shuffled over, right through the middle of the other team's celebration. He ran to me, and I pulled him close to speak so only he'd hear.

"I'm proud of you, my Pumpkin. I love you so very much."

You see, you can't call a growing boy in a baseball uniform "Pumpkin" out loud. Such things aren't done. There are no Pumpkins in baseball.

But there is crying. Some little ones were that upset. Others wanted to assign blame before their parents could hush them. Mine kept his feelings to himself.

On the way home, I told him stories about my times playing softball in high school. He was very interested to hear that we never went to the playoffs. He sat up straighter in his booster seat when I told him his team was much better than the teams I played for. He begged to hear about times I personally did well, or times I messed up.

So I told him everything: about the tendonitis that would send me home in tears; about my 16th birthday, when I lost a ball in the sun and got smashed in the mouth - giving me a bloody lip and a swollen face; about the time my ex-boyfriend showed up to a game to rattle me, and I played like a friggin' pro; about the constant open wound on my left shin from sliding into second base; and I told him about the times we played games in the cold and wind against teams so much better than we were, making us wonder why we even tried.

But I told him we always tried our best, no matter what. And I told him that I was proud of him for doing his best, even though they didn't win the game.

At bedtime, he was clean and lying down and he looked up at me.

"I love you, Mommy."

My God, he breaks my heart.

"I love you too, my Pumpkin."

Minutes later, he was asleep. Sweet and small but more grown up than he was before tonight's game. Tonight, he learned that even though you try, you can still lose. But even knowing you can lose, you never stop trying.

Not only is that baseball, it's life.