When this ball was manufactured by Rawlings, it was just one of millions made by the company. But yesterday it became the ball my eleven-year-old nephew hit for his first home run.
I heard the crack of the bat, my sister-in-law and the crowd yelling and waited for my play-by-play announcer, my husband, to confirm what had happened even though the sounds around me told me what he was going to say. High fives, hugs and tears ensued. I watched his teammates wait for him at home plate as the two runners on base preceded him there. The whole team surrounded him and jumped up and down together as one as we continued to cheer. It was a once in a lifetime moment and I was there to see it. Figuratively speaking.
As the game went on, we sat with pride and happiness for this boy we love so much. As my husband resumed calling the game for me, a sadness surfaced within that I had not been able to actually watch the ball take its historic ride. I live my life and don’t dwell on my vision loss but sometimes it’s impossible not to wish things were different, that I could have seen that ball go over the fence and my nephew’s face as he ran the bases. It sucks.
No one there had any idea that it was hard for me. My family and some of the players’ parents know about my sight but I was just a proud aunt to them at that moment. There was no way for anyone to tell that I was feeling denied the full pleasure of this important milestone in my nephew’s life.
The adult in me knows its important for him to see us there supporting him, more so in the grand scheme of things than me seeing him. But this is a blog about the good, the bad and downright ugly of this life I am living with minimum sight. I show up for his games, I slowly make my way over uneven grass and dirt to get to the fields, I sit in the blazing sun for six hours, I yell for all the boys and I am one of the spectators . . . who can’t really spectate. And as the family replays this home run for years to come, I alone will be unable to recall it in images like everyone else. For like this ball, I may appear to be like everyone else, but I am not.