L I F E - Mom (2013)

 In Little League, I do not recall ever being embarrassed by my Mom. 

It's because I played center field.

I saw a kid cry on Opening Day because his parents wouldn't be there. I saw another pee his uniform because his parents were there too much. I saw prejudice and petty neighborhood rivalries unfold. 

I would witness otherwise normal, functional citizens - policemen, town council members, ambulance drivers - reduced to spitting, screaming stadium rats fighting umpires, and other parents for every little crumb of the glory they believed was their own. 

I never had to shag balls at six every morning. Never had to yell 'I hate you' or 'Take me out, then' at my Dad. He never slapped me in front of half the town because I didn't slide at home plate. 

My brother, sisters and I played ball every day, not because we had to but because we could. We never had to ask ourselves if we were more afraid of a fifty-mile-an-hour fastball or our parents. 

My Mom and Dad - at the park, in the auditorium, at church or at school - weren't assholes.

Ai, Ricardo, my Mom will say as she reads this. She'll be pissed because I said 'asshole'. She's had to tell me not to say nor write that word and others more than once. I'd better not hear you talk like the other kids, especially those twins, mom would say. And if your Dad makes you wear a turtleneck in July, at noon, on Saturdays, then do it. Besides, Mijo, it makes you look so handsome. Not like the other grenudos. Bye, Mijo, have a good game.

Mijo.

A word that could make the angry, drunk, confused, bruised, scared version of me I have ever been, believe in my heart that everything would be all right. What few things I was forced to endure I usually heard that word last. 

As my Mom or Dad told me 'bye', as I'd walk or run to whatever position I was playing, they were always with me.

Still. 

Always. 

In center field, 100 degrees, in cleats with a black, long sleeve turtleneck, I felt my parent's presence. I could always hear my Mom. In center field, I was too far away to see either of my parents in the crowd, but I never had to look for them or wonder where they were. Ever.

As I reached my late teens and into adulthood, my Mom's ability to witness an athletic event in which her kids participated grew quite sophisticated (Why did Ricky swing at the first pitch?) and mellowed, as a result.  The tenor and volume subsided, as would a Cabernet over time. 

But I still hear my Mom and Dad in my heart even when they're far away. I feel my Mom and Dad always, night game or day, football or baseball, winning or loosing, boy or man.

In center field.

488 words, 1-1/3 MSWord pages (12 point type)
written in 2013

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