A real American
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An extract of this blog was used for a National Public Radio KQED Perspective
A real American by Alison van Diggelen Five years ago, when I became an American citizen, I learned all about the Declaration of Independence and could name every State capital. But I didn’t know if the Giants played baseball or lacrosse. When my husband and his friends opined about sports, I was scared to open my mouth. “Lou Gehrig? Now didn’t he play for the Harlem Globe Trotters?” How can you have lived in this country through twelve baseball seasons and say that? Well, I’m the first to admit that where there’s a closed mind, there’s a way. Having grown up in Scotland with the thrilling nimbleness of soccer and rough charisma of rugby, American sports just didn’t captivate me. It’s probably unpatriotic of me to say this, but I simply didn’t care. I never acquired my husband’s dedication to sports: the masculine ability to watch TV for hours on end; not distracted by crying babies nor dirty dishes, only the occasional interruption to fetch bottles of beer from the kitchen. Shortly after we arrived in the States, however, I felt compelled to go to a baseball game. I didn’t exactly relish the thought but felt that one should. It was all part of my intention to experience the full American dream. During that Colorado Sky Sox v’s the Omaha Royals game, the monotony reminded me of a cricket match I attended years ago in London. However, over there, if the action wasn’t exactly scintillating, you could lounge around on the grass, get slowly sloshed on tea colored, yet potent, Pimms. You could people-watch as the distant ka-thunk of cricket bat on ball and polite applause punctuated a languorous summer day. Compare that to sitting on a hard metal bench with no back support, the smell of stinky hotdogs drenched in mustard and mingled in some tinny blasts of cheesy music. Yet this spring, despite valiant efforts to direct my kids to sports that I understood, like soccer or hopscotch, my eight-year-old son became determined to play baseball. Many times, I asked him, “Are you absolutely sure?” while behind my back, I clutched the youth soccer league signup forms. My needling only toughened his resolve. So, last month, with more than a capful of grudge, I went to see my son’s first baseball game. I went reluctantly, like a moody teenager being dragged to the symphony. But seeing him out there, feet perfectly positioned at the home plate, bat cocked over his right shoulder, helmeted head steadily watching the pitcher, I swear he had the elegance of that Joe DiMaggio guy he reveres. I admired his sturdy long legs and the way his white pants tucked into his socks just above the ankle. His uniform was perfectly punctuated with a blue belt and crisp new sport shirt. He actually looked like a real little American. I held my breath, bracing for an inevitable strike out. At his last practice I watched in silent anguish as he swiped and swiped at those balls, while each of his three coaches and an over-enthusiastic father yelled instructions from the field. “Feet apart!” “Keep your eye on the ball!” “Bend that elbow!” “Choke up on the bat!” I winced at every command as I watched my son’s shoulders hunch further, his head begin to droop. “Stupid sport,” I said under my breath, prepared for tears on the way home and whines of “I give up!” But he surprised me. He sat tight-lipped and just stared out of the window. I had already given up on this baseball thing. But he had not. But at the game, my boy surprised me. On the second ball, he made contact. The bat sang. I heard it sing! A beautiful hard ball along the third base line. I jumped to my feet, hands in the air. “Great hit!” I bellowed, as he sped to first base. Seconds later, I looked around. No one else was standing, not even my husband, who smiled and gave me a “sit down” signal. Several moms made curt little grins and one of them gave me a thumbs up. I sat back down, face burning, trying to work out what had happened, why I could feel my heart thudding in my chest; why I couldn’t stop grinning. Just maybe, in that thump of the ball, metal on leather, in that rush of adrenalin, I had become a baseball mom. And perhaps also a real American. Alison van Diggelen is editor of siliconmom. © siliconmom
