Kiddo#2, and #14

Baseball camp was a lot of fun. It touted itself as teaching “fundamentals” and I figured that would be fine for K1 and K2, since neither of them knew how to play. I worried when the registration person asked me what positions they played (er…fan?) but I steeled myself for the worst and signed them up.

The kids both had a good time, I think. It’s hard to tell with Kiddo#1. Kiddo#2 quietly told me she enjoyed herself, and I think she meant it. She’s very rarely exuberent about her likes and dislikes, although the pouting has gotten worse lately. I’m told she’s a lot like me as a kid: could survive the sinking of the Titanic without batting an eyelash, but then fall apart if her favorite doll got lost.

The last day of the camp, we got tickets to the local pro team (the same folks who’d been teaching the camp.) And we went there, stuck it out for an hour while the weather proceeded to beat both teams (rained out) and then at the end, she told me, she wanted me to get an autograph from #14.

Who is he, I asked. She said he had taught her at camp. I looked up his name and asked if that was his name. She didn’t know. Only that he was #14.

I’m rotten with names too, by the way, but I figured that was good enough. We went and looked for him.

Earlier, I’d been an idiot because although I had my camera, it wasn’t ready when the cutest moment in the history of sports took place right before my eyes. The kids were all gathered right before they went home for one final talk from the coach, and as she went to the group, Kiddo#2 got high-fived by two of the players. Both of these guys were twice her height and twice as broad, and her “high” five was about waist-high for them. It was absolutely adorable, and I should have snapped a picture. I’ll regret that forever.

While it drizzled, we hung out by the dugout, and eventually the coach came by, said hi to Kiddo#2, and I explained that we were looking for #14 (by name, not by number) and he went to get him. Kiddo#2 went totally silent, and then, when he signed, she was very shy, could barely look at him, and wanted me to talk to him for her.

Ah. I get it.

My Patient Husband said later, “I’m not ready for my six year old to have a crush on a ball player!”

Hush, darling. I’m going to print out #14’s picture from the team website. She’s got his signature on her glove. She’s got her memories of being high-fived by the man of her dreams, only sixteen years older than she is. It may last for a while, or it may peter out as she goes on to other interests.

But you never know, and maybe God will listen to a little girl’s prayers for the man she loves, and a certain pitcher will get picked up by a major league team, and one day we’ll look at her glove with that signature and his number on it, and she’ll be so proud of him.

Because she knew him way back when, that day she waited for him in the rain.