the playoffs
Well..it has been a fun time here in the Wilkins house. We have been glued to the TV, watching the playoffs between the Rangers and the NY Yankees. I should say we watch the game and watch Luke bounce the foam ball off the walls, between innings. He can not just sit. He has to either go outside during the commercials and play on his pitch- back or toss the ball to us or again, throw the soft ball against our living room wall. Some would shutter to watch their child throw a ball against the walls. We tend to celebrate it. Not because we are still renting...not because it is a soft, foamy ball that really couldn't hurt anything, but we totally believe that this is what the child has to do enrich his career and eventually support his parents and grandparents. I figure by the time he is 19 he will have a big league contract that will out- earn us all...unless G.O.G.S. (good ol' George Strait) records one of daddy's songs soon. Not to put pressure on the child...but for the love of God, this kid is born to play.
My mom will live until she is 100. My in laws will too. Walt and I, well..barring any saloon fights, we have good odds to keep on going until at least our late 90's. Who will buy the ranch where we are all to live? Who will create the compound with 4 houses that all meet in the courtyard? Who will buy the electric golf carts that we drive to each other's bungalow? That's right..our baseball loving, immensely talented 2 hour a day playing son.
OK, so he's 8. I know he may change passions once the dreaded middle school starts, the end of all ends, the place that tries to suck the living soul out of everyone. The place that tells you, "You are not an individual..you are one with the system." Then High School, where if you are not cool (like neither your mama or daddy was) you end up eating lunch with the stoners, choir geeks and misfits and eventually choosing music as your profession. In that case we will count on Luke to get a recording career to fall back on. Just like Mrs. Paxton of Orange High told me: "Music is a fun hobby..you might want to look into something more steady for your future." Don't listen. Run to the field. (With all due respect)
We will be right there, cheering on the Astros or the Rangers or the Brewers..sitting with the ball players wives and team owners. Never leaving the field before the very last out is made. Even then, waiting around for the ushers to graciously escort us out. Because we believed. We nurtured the seed that grew in the child. But it is not us who created this. It was a gift.
He talks to himself. He plays catch with whomever will play. He calls the play by play, acting out each scenario with different endings. We hit wiffle balls, tennis balls and soft "Dollar Store" balls in the back yard. We play catch with the "official" ball that he got from the right fielder from the Brewers when we skipped school and took him to the day game at Minute Maid park. We play paper ball in the house with the tiny bat from Miller Stadium he got this summer. We have to pretend we are Hunter Pence or Michael Borne or lately, Josh Hamilton, of The Texas Rangers. We can only bat in order and can not go easy on the pitcher. He brings 2 gloves to school along with a tennis ball. He comes home, takes off his backpack and puts on a baseball hat and starts throwing the ball in the air.
I sang because I had to. Not because my mom or dad wanted me to be a star. It was a part of my very being to sing on the swings, in my room, on my way to school. Linda Ronstadt and Emmy Lou were my saving angels when I lived in Utah for a year and a half. They saved me from being 13..an outcast because of my religion, chubby, glasses and shy. Luke plays because he has to. He must move and dive and fly through the air to see how far he can go to catch that fly ball that is the winning run in the bottom of the 9th. God, can we bottle that and save it for when he needs it when the world is throwing him curves? Perhaps he will never forget the gift. Perhaps the road will lead him to his Divine and Perfect place in the world, rewarding him with luck along with this deep desire to play.
For now it is pure joy watching this kid shine in his glory.
So we will try and temper our future plans knowing well that the path and plan is a great mystery. We will not leave games early. We will play catch whenever he asks. We will do our best to be fans, players, coaches, taxi drivers, cheerleaders and parents. You will see us. We are the ones outside of Gruene Hall, in between sets doing what we didn't choose to fall back on, playing catch with the kid in the ball cap. Bring a glove.
Wednesday, October 20 11:20 pm
My mom will live until she is 100. My in laws will too. Walt and I, well..barring any saloon fights, we have good odds to keep on going until at least our late 90's. Who will buy the ranch where we are all to live? Who will create the compound with 4 houses that all meet in the courtyard? Who will buy the electric golf carts that we drive to each other's bungalow? That's right..our baseball loving, immensely talented 2 hour a day playing son.
OK, so he's 8. I know he may change passions once the dreaded middle school starts, the end of all ends, the place that tries to suck the living soul out of everyone. The place that tells you, "You are not an individual..you are one with the system." Then High School, where if you are not cool (like neither your mama or daddy was) you end up eating lunch with the stoners, choir geeks and misfits and eventually choosing music as your profession. In that case we will count on Luke to get a recording career to fall back on. Just like Mrs. Paxton of Orange High told me: "Music is a fun hobby..you might want to look into something more steady for your future." Don't listen. Run to the field. (With all due respect)
We will be right there, cheering on the Astros or the Rangers or the Brewers..sitting with the ball players wives and team owners. Never leaving the field before the very last out is made. Even then, waiting around for the ushers to graciously escort us out. Because we believed. We nurtured the seed that grew in the child. But it is not us who created this. It was a gift.
He talks to himself. He plays catch with whomever will play. He calls the play by play, acting out each scenario with different endings. We hit wiffle balls, tennis balls and soft "Dollar Store" balls in the back yard. We play catch with the "official" ball that he got from the right fielder from the Brewers when we skipped school and took him to the day game at Minute Maid park. We play paper ball in the house with the tiny bat from Miller Stadium he got this summer. We have to pretend we are Hunter Pence or Michael Borne or lately, Josh Hamilton, of The Texas Rangers. We can only bat in order and can not go easy on the pitcher. He brings 2 gloves to school along with a tennis ball. He comes home, takes off his backpack and puts on a baseball hat and starts throwing the ball in the air.
I sang because I had to. Not because my mom or dad wanted me to be a star. It was a part of my very being to sing on the swings, in my room, on my way to school. Linda Ronstadt and Emmy Lou were my saving angels when I lived in Utah for a year and a half. They saved me from being 13..an outcast because of my religion, chubby, glasses and shy. Luke plays because he has to. He must move and dive and fly through the air to see how far he can go to catch that fly ball that is the winning run in the bottom of the 9th. God, can we bottle that and save it for when he needs it when the world is throwing him curves? Perhaps he will never forget the gift. Perhaps the road will lead him to his Divine and Perfect place in the world, rewarding him with luck along with this deep desire to play.
For now it is pure joy watching this kid shine in his glory.
So we will try and temper our future plans knowing well that the path and plan is a great mystery. We will not leave games early. We will play catch whenever he asks. We will do our best to be fans, players, coaches, taxi drivers, cheerleaders and parents. You will see us. We are the ones outside of Gruene Hall, in between sets doing what we didn't choose to fall back on, playing catch with the kid in the ball cap. Bring a glove.
Wednesday, October 20 11:20 pm
What a beautiful dream, Tina. What is that Proverb? Something like "without a dream, the people perish"?
ReplyDeleteNo time to go look it up right now, but it is something like that. I believe strongly in dreams and that we all must have them. So GOOD FOR Y'ALL! Keep it up, and don't let life get in the way of it. How lucky Luke is to have parents to support his dream.
Oh, and by the way, we dream of the "family compound" as well. I guess maybe that is a common one. So happy you are back writing again!
Ok missy...where are you? It's been 11 days and we fully expect to see some Halloween photos at least! ;)
ReplyDelete