Nick has played on the town soccer team for four years now, two seasons a year. This year, we decided to add a little baseball to the mix. The first practice was this past Saturday morning, and we were on the field bright and early, for three hours. Madeline and I set up camp in a far corner, out of the way from stray flying balls, and settled in. I can’t tell you how proud of Nick I was. When I originally signed him up, I can’t say he was too happy about it. He’s never played before, and was apprehensive about it. “What if I can’t hit the ball? Or miss a catch? Or don’t know which way to go?” Nick is my thousand-question-much-trepidation baby. To appease the fears, we all took turns practicing with him and taking him out and going through some basic rules. Me. His Uncle. Jamie.
When we got there Saturday morning, his team had one of his school classmates on it, so that helped. But something happened. He dug in. Became completely and fully engaged. Raised his hand. Volunteered to go first. Swung the bat. Had fun. So, so very proud of him.
Madeline watched Nick play for the first solid hour, and every time she saw him running, she stood up to cheer for him. Love that about her.
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