Two of our children, Elizabeth and Charles, have thrown the law of averages a left-handed curve. Stats say that roughly 10 percent of the population is left-handed. In application then, of our six children, one (that is, if you choose to round 10% of 6, up) child of six should be left-handed. Charles' older sister Elizabeth decided she was a lefty before Charles had even shown up on the planet. Charles, at an early age where averages meant nothing, was certain about the fact that he favored that left hand, too, for holding his crayolas.

Charles, now nine, is eager to play organized baseball. Of course a lefty's glove has to fit his right hand to keep the left hand available for throwing the ball. Outfitting him with a lefty's mitt was an easy task. What I hadn't considered in my "left brain" thinking was the dynamics of an inexperienced 10 year old pitching to a left handed hitter.

I'm sure that most pitchers take no pleasure in "beaning" the hitter with a badly thrown ball. They are eager to prove themselves and in their zeal they suffer with inconsistent pitches that run "wild" from time to time. Out of habit to pitching to the dominant class of right-handers, young pitchers tend to throw to the outside and avoid inside pitches that could easily go off course and pop the batter anywhere from his helmet down to his Adidas. Charles found out in practice that the pitchers' accuracy was not finely tuned and that as a lefty he was a "ball magnet." He got smacked several times in the leg and the helmet with errant pitches during the opening games. He shook each sting off bravely and took his base.

It was this week that a wild pitch found its way to sudden impact and a public meeting with Charles' privates. An athletic protective cup stood the test like a knight's armor. "Are you OK", the coach questioned with a wincing face. " Good thing I'm wearing a cup", Charles good-naturedly responded. He took his base once again, disguising his embarrassment with all of the will he could muster.

A couple of days later, after his brain had a chance to process the impact of the wild pitch to the crotch and the other wild balls that had bounced off his helmet, arms and legs, he told me he didn't want to bat at that night's game. I could understand his reluctance as I had gone through the same batting pressure anxiety at his age too many years ago. Threatening hard balls whiz by lightning fast when you are watching and wondering which pitch is the one to swing at. The more I thought, the more it came back to me. That queasy feeling in your stomach you get as everyone watches. Parents, siblings and team mates all expecting you to knock it over the fence; you would settle for just making a "foul tick" or the relief of ball four to end the agony. Charles had all of that to deal with plus the prospect of another good sting and bruise.

We worked at home with some batting practice before the game. He hit a few pitches and seemed relieved. He agreed to go to the game. I advised him before we left for the game to stand away from home plate more than normal to avoid those unintentional inside pitches. No problem with implementing that idea, Charles would have stood in the next county if he could have gotten away with it. I also suggested that he talk to his coach. That idea was not even worthy of a verbal response. His frown told me that he would deal with his demons himself. With one last mournful look at me he asked woefully, "Do I have to bat?"

Batter up. Charles was next. What would he do? Retreat or Advance. He cautiously picked up his long bat, adjusted his helmet and showed up in the batter's box.

Each pitch triggered a self-defense hop backwards by Charles and no swing. Luck would have it ball four came before strike three and Charles relocated to first base.

The story is not that he didn't swing, but the fact that a nine year old found courage in the moment to continue and told his fear it had struck out this time. Later on, I reflected on the fact that we adults are in Charles' position on deck, called upon to bat all of the time.

Unlike Charles, how many times in our lives have we lost our courage and walked away from unwarranted fears?

Some day when he can understand, I will thank Charles for teaching Dad how to find the courage to deal with fear. What a lucky man I am to have six children to keep teaching me how to be an adult.

Douglas E. Emerson
Copyright 2003