I’m worth 2.235 million and I’m riding a smelly Greyhound bus in the wee hours of the morning to get to my grandson’s baseball training camp. His university’s team comes down to Florida by bus every March for a week of spring training. Parents come, too and so did I, a grandmother, known to all as Mimi. That gives you an idea of how much I love him and treasure time with my family.
HIs team won 6 out of 8 games and played reasonably well. His batting average was around .667 even though he had the mild flu all week, including a fever. But this is baseball, and he loves the game.
My full attention was on Mac, my grandson. When he was growing up we played innumerable games of Wi, usually baseball or Mario. He won most of the games, not because I let him, but because he was very good. In fact, he looked shocked when I beat him, which was rarely. Also, his chubby little fingers were a lot quicker than mine on the remote thingy.
I watched him grow from Thomas the Tank to Little League baseball, then a travelling baseball sports team, The Renegades. His blonde hair stuck out of the black ball hat as he gritted his teeth, held his bat back, ready to swing for the fence, glaring at the pitcher through slitted eyes. He was determined to hit that damned ball, and hit it far. Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t.
Somewhere along the way he learned that hard work would make him a better hitter. And he did work hard, lifting weights, practicing, watching others play, —-he did all of it. And he didn’t do it alone. His father was right there teaching and training him.
His mother fund raised and make sure everyone was where they were suppose to be when they were suppose to be there. Baseball was a lifestyle in their house.
My memories of him through the early years was Thomas the Tank. The train would go off track at one particular spot every time it made the bend and he patiently fixed the problem and started the train again. Again and again, and again he made it work. I knew then that he was going to be a engineer type person. This turned out to be accurate.
My memories of him growing up included measured enthusiasm. Mac always watched the whole picture, the whole scene, the whole issue before he took part. It was like he wanted to see the beginning, middle and end before he kicked into gear.
Some fun times we had together included me pushing him up and down the slight hill in the back yard while he steered in a plastic car. When I stopped to catch my breath, he would turn his head and look up to me, waiting to do it again. I remember Mac heaping globs of horrible blue sauce on his ice cream at Max and Erma’s, and him splashing around in the bathtub with a zoo of plastic animals bobbing around.
Then baseball started with elementary school and things were smooth and contented. He and I continued to play Wi and have fun in lots of ways.
The pre-adolescent period brought gangly arms and legs, big feet, and a degree of silliness. And baseball became more important than ever. After that, with baseball equal to academics, hormones took hold, then pimples and hair on his face. His beard grew in red like his mother’s hair and took various shapes throughout those later years. He firmly established his first base position and baseball as a priority.
But he was always Mac. Quick to think, slow to speak, deliberate and kind.
And we were buddies. We played games together, sometimes watched TV together and we talked together. Sometimes he would share his private thoughts which always impressed me with their maturity. And he wanted to know all about the family background, stories of his father when he was growing up. He joined in the family card games and took absolutely forever to shuffle, but learned quickly with few mistakes.
Now he is in his last year of university, studying mechanical engineering and I am watching him play first base and hit the ball, far, far, far away, as he always intended. HIs shoes are bigger, the bat is bigger, the uniform bigger, and it’s still Mac playing the game/
He’s grown up. During the training week I focused on my beautiful grandson who no longer had blonde hair and young soft spots on his body. Mac now has dark hair and eyes, with firm body muscles. He’s adult enough to shake hands with confidence and presence and hug his teammate’s Moms with assurance and tenderness. He quietly praises other players and encourages them and has earned the respect of the coaches and his teammates.
I
I sat in the stands with my grandson’s parents and his uncle as we soaked in baseball all week and watching Mac play.
And each day watching him felt like a warm cuddle, a soft cocoon , a piece of warm apple pie, an American flag.
Mac is entering the adult world and will journey forward to all the hopes, dreams, and disappointments that life holds.
My grandson is an adult and I am very proud of him.