Alex - a diminutive of the male given name Alexander. My Alex is just Alex, not Alexander, yet both are steeped in greatness. One was a Greek king of Macedon who conquered the known world and never lost a battle. The other is an 8 year old wonder whose quirkiness and inquisitive nature define him unlike any 8 year-old boy I’ve ever met.
This past weekend he stood on a baseball mound as a pitcher for the first time in his life. This lanky, sometimes awkward and mostly clumsy kid stood there and fired off pitch after pitch. Though most missed the plate, there were a few that nicked it with zip and movement – a microcosm of life in bloom.
Our day to day is spent polishing the moving parts that affect us the most. The ones outside that zone are hung to dry somewhere in the corridors of despair. We throw things, friends, acquaintances away that we once cared about, to the trash pile of our memories.
My eyes welled up and I fought tears as I saw the wonder that is Alex, with his left arm and leg up in the air as he fired pitch after pitch. He didn’t care where the baseball went, he simply fired them along.
This carefree 8 year old with bright hazel eyes can teach us a lesson or two about really opening our eyes and paying attention to everything around us; just like he pays attention to a plastic bag or a lost-on-his-way earthworm or a rubber band.
Mostly, I was incredibly proud to see him on the mound of baseball – I was proud of my son. Baseball mirrors life in mysterious ways, sometimes all too clear for us to focus, other times thick as molasses, yet non-elusive to the wonder of an 8 year boy and his left-handed delivered fastball.
