Hey, Coach…
Hey Coach, in case you’ve forgotten, they’re eight. Some are even seven, a couple just turned nine, but for the most part: They. Are. Eight.
The girl in right field, who hears that the worst players are stuck in right field, finally has found her confidence and owns her position. She loves that she gets to back up first base after every play. She loves that she’s constantly moving. She loves that the ball doesn’t come to her often, but when it does, she’s ready. She owns her position with pride. Today, a line drive came out to her, and she knocked it down. She fielded it beautifully, transitioned flawlessly, and to everyone’s surprise, she threw out the runner at first base. The crowd cheered. Her teammates cheered. I cheered. She cheered. Her smile couldn’t have gotten any bigger, ear to ear, across her sunburnt cheeks. She did it! She owned her position, she knew what to do, and she did it.
The girl in right field has anxiety-induced non-epileptic seizures. When she gets nervous, anxious, worked up, or feels defeated, she has panic attacks that lead to seizures. To date, she has only had two panic attacks during her games and zero have produced seizures. She is growing. She is thriving. She is still working on her confidence, but it’s coming along.
The girl in right field is trying to think about the next batter, the next play, the next throw; but that same girl is also worried her mom’s cancer isn’t going to get better. She’s worried her mom is going to start another round of chemo. She’s worried her mom’s wig is going to blow off during the middle of the game and everyone will see. She’s worried her mom’s knees aren’t going to work well enough to get her back and forth between the dugout and outfield, to stand next to her in right field, building up her confidence. Building up the team.
The girl in right field plants her feet where the coach tells her. She’s the quickest girl on the team, so even if she’s playing next to the foul line, she’s confident she can chase down anything close to her position. Her arm isn’t the best. Some days she throws great, most days she throws terrible. But she’s working on it.
The girl in right field just made an amazing play. The weight of the world lifted off her shoulders and she was proud.
Hey, Coach… from the other team… you stole that moment from her. You stole that pride from her. Your tactics, your behavior, your attitude.
Hey, Coach… it’s just a game. THEY. ARE. EIGHT.
Your complaining didn’t change the out; your complaining broke her spirit.
Hey, Coach… you made me make an ass out of myself. You made me stick up for my child. You made me so angry that I walked out to the foul line and stepped out your supposed “16 feet behind the dirt.” You made me tell that right fielder she couldn’t cross this imaginary line until the ball is hit, because you couldn’t handle your player getting thrown out at first base from the outfield. You made me show a very bad side of myself.
But Coach… I would do it again and again and again. Day after day, if it means sticking up for my right fielder.
We can forget about the game. We can forget who won. We can forget what the score was. But we can’t forget how you made us feel.
And maybe that’s on me. Maybe I need to control my emotions better. Maybe I need to suck it up. Maybe I need to remember it’s just a game and THEY. ARE. EIGHT.
But Coach… we aren’t eight. We are adults. We should be building these kids up; regardless of what team they are on.
Hey Coach, I always compliment the other teams’ girls when they make awesome plays or get an awesome hit. That was really hard for me to do after your display of um… sportsmanship?
I’m learning a life lesson here too. I hope you do the same, Coach.
And for the love of all things holy—THEY. ARE. EIGHT.
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