Is life some kind of contest?
SATURDAY, August 28 – I give in. I can’t go through it all again: grab hold of him, kiss his forehead, and try to talk him into it. Convince him that the pleasure that baseball once gave him will come back, that he’s a good player and that his team needs him. I’m trying to make him realize that he well… what actually?
I give in. He looked at me with that wounded look. I saw the pain in his eyes. I saw his contorted body. I felt the tension in his head, the throbbing of his heart. I heard the desperation in his voice when he asked: ‘Papa, do we really have to go to baseball practice?’
I give in. Why should I keep trying to persuade him? Why force him? Why bring back those memories that cause him so much pain? He told me himself. ‘When I go to baseball practice, I go through it all over again.’ Why pretend to him and to myself that continuing to play baseball, the sport that he and his mother loved, can become part of a healing process?
I give in. ‘Okay, Eamonn. We’re not going to baseball practice. Maybe we ought to sit down and talk about the rest of the season.’ He visibly relaxes. Is this a victory or a defeat? I don’t know; but if today I happen to bump into the convicted motorcycle cop, he can expect an enormous punch in the nose. Maybe two.
I’ve finally given in, I say to C, in search of understanding or at least a bit of support. She looks up, ‘How do you mean, given in? Is life some kind of contest?’ Good point, I admit.