The Way Things Hit

 

Shortly after track ended we joined Special Olympics softball with many of the same kids. Coleman loved this too, but it was a much greater challenge for him in all ways. He could barely hold up the bat, much less swing it, and he didn’t understand the concept of running bases. He was a danger in the outfield as he was far more interested in watching the kids playing basketball behind the softball field than he was watching for fly balls to come his way. When it was his turn to bat, Coach Vinnie (who is also the track coach and an amazing guy) walked him to the plate, picked the bat up and gently wrapped his arms around Coleman, helping him to hold the bat. Much to my great surprise and relief, Coleman didn’t push him or grab him or yell or anything. Vinnie helped him to swing (many times before they hit the ball!) and then helped him to run to first base. Forget that Coleman walked away after that, and that he had pretty much no interest in continuing to stay on base or better yet, running to another one. He participated though, and enjoyed being at the field among other kids.

There was something about that first practice though that hit me differently. 

First, it was all of the folks sitting, watching the game from their fold-up chairs.  They appeared to be older and I assumed they might be grandparents or neighbors coming to catch the game.  But as I scanned the field, I noticed the ages of the players.  There were many kids around Coleman’s age, but also many that were much, much older.  I glanced back to the folks in the fold-up chairs and realized they were parents. 

As the practice went on, it was clear the team was surprisingly good at the game. They could hit the ball strongly, understood when to run, and when to stay on base.  They were able to catch the ball most of the time, and many of them had incredible throwing ability.  They also seemed able to grasp when to encourage each other, saying things like “Great catch, Matt!” or “Nice try, Michaell!”.  But as I scanned back to Coleman, I saw him with his back to Homeplate, facing the basketball courts in the opposite park, scripting words to himself, oblivious to what was going on around him.  I walked out to where he stood and gently turned him toward home plate, saying “See them hitting the ball?  You have to watch for the ball and try to catch it.”  I tried to adjust the glove that was hanging loosely from his fingertips, but as soon as I pushed his fingers in, he pulled them back out. 

Around center base was a sweet, talkative female player.  She kept asking Coleman questions, like “Hey Coleman, what’s your favorite t.v. show?” “What grade are you in?” “What is your favorite dessert?" "Do you have any siblings, Coleman?” He didn’t respond to any of the questions though and kept looking at the sky or turning back toward the basketball game.   She kept asking questions until I finally said “He’s not feeling very talkative today.”  The issue, though, is that he really isn’t able to answer most of those questions, not understanding words like favorite, sibling, or probably even dessert, and he definitely doesn’t know what grade he is in.  (In his defense, I just figured it out last year.)  Overall, though, he generally doesn’t have the language skills or conversational abilities to engage like this sweet girl wanted.   

Later that night I was thinking back on the practice.  I tried not to let myself go there, but sure enough I slipped down the rabbit hole and had myself a nice little pity party as I thought about the aging parents, the older kids, Coleman growing old, Billy and I growing old, and about how different Coleman was from so many of these other players.  I decided right then and there that we wouldn’t go back to softball again and that made my little pity party a big pity party. 

It’s funny the way things just hit you sometimes.  Coleman had already been with some of these families during track.  But track was just running, and you only really need to follow everyone else on the path.  On that first softball practice, something just hit me wrong.  After a while, I pulled myself together.  I reminded myself that Coley is Coley, good at some things and not-so-good at other things, just like all of us.  I promised myself to make social conversation a priority goal on his upcoming IEP.  And I poured myself a nice big glass of wine.  Thankfully Billy sat with me and started in with completely inappropriate jokes about the three of us growing old and pretty soon we were both keeled over laughing.  Everyone needs a Billy in their life.

We did go back to softball after that, and we are planning to try again this year.  After all, Coleman might catch on.  You never know when things will hit just right.