Salve

They call it The Wifflot; I call it Salvation. A field of dreams conceived by a group of budding entrepreneurs caught in that space where playful boys transform into fine young men, it is where mine are spending nearly every waking moment of their summer.

By the time we slog to the finish line of another punishing school year, I am overjoyed to be freed from my role as resident nag:  Rousing languid boys at dawn from a deep and persistent slumber and the endless pursuit of missing assignments that I can’t evade thanks to my electronic nemesis, otherwise known as “PowerSchool”.  It’s like the skipping needle has finally been lifted from the deep groove worn into the LP.  I look forward to being reunited with the gym suits, as we haven’t seen each other since the beginning of the year. 

I enjoy a few days, maybe a week of bliss until I notice the dishes piling up in the sink, remnants of snack foods in the most unexpected places, and the distinctly frat-house look my family room takes on as it converts to sleeping quarters for nocturnal boys.  Oh, yeah.  I don’t like this either.

Each year brings new challenges in terms of keeping these guys busy, especially given that they couldn’t be more different.  Nick goes out of his mind spending more than five minutes alone, while Nate could hole up in his room with electronics for the entire 100 days of summer and be happy as a clam.

When Nick mentioned that his friend had permission from his dad to parcel off a chunk of their property to create a baseball field, my response was something along the lines of a dismissive, “That’s nice, honey”. It wasn’t until they came home with a detailed game schedule through the end of July and informed me they had both paid $20 to become league members, that I started paying attention.

If I told you this is an incredible experience for my boys, it would be the understatement of the season.  Every day, and yes, I mean every day, around noon they pack up a cooler and head out.  Game times are at 1PM and 6PM generally, and last maybe an hour, but they are at the field all day.  They arrive home, sweaty and exhausted, with smiles that are as difficult to wipe off as the ground-in dirt.

It’s more than just the fuel that comes from sunshine and exercise, but lessons in responsibility, accountability, organization, team building, coaching, strategic planning and profitability.  My boys don’t know it, but they are an integral part of a start-up business. 

Nick is a team captain, responsible for motivating and coaching his players, with all the administrative duties that come with the job:  Finding replacements when players can’t make it and making the difficult call to suspend a habitual no-show.  The leaders of this organization take on many tactical responsibilities, as they are a lean team, striping and preparing the field for play, staining the left field “party deck” and soliciting donations like outdoor furniture and an umbrella. 

Nate is thriving under the wing of his coach, an older boy who has taken a genuine interest in him.  The first two weeks of the season Nate’s bat never left his shoulder, I’m told.  Now with the tutelage of a patient mentor, he has transformed into a respectable hitter.  I can’t help but think that spending time with these older boys will ease his transition into high school in the fall. 

On Father’s Day, Nick organized the Kids vs. Dads game complete with a cook-out.  Grandpa was invited to take in the games while staying at my house a few weeks ago.  I’ve never seen the boys more appreciative of a gift, than when they opened a box containing a 12-pack of regulation wiffle balls, compliments of my dad.  And the fourth of July will not go by without a fireworks display and All Star game.  They’re tracking stats for every player, and they tell me 300+ have been through the gates already and we’re not yet out of June.

Is this all too good to be true?  Maybe.  My shadow side can’t help but think this could be a well-orchestrated charade, reminiscent of that Paul Newman-Robert Redford movie, “The Sting”, but I doubt it.  I would be remiss if I didn’t concede that there are likely a few unsavory activities going on.  They are teenage boys, after all.  But the ostrich in me is willing to live with a little sand on her face.  The benefits far outweigh the risks.

What I am most grateful for is a short respite, the chance to let down my hair and breathe a little. They are busy and content with something meaningful. I’m thinking about how I make the connection for them, to help them see what happens when they use their powers for good rather than evil, that they can conceive of a dream and turn it into reality. 

I also love that I am here, in it with them.  Whenever I receive a text requesting a ride home, even though it’s only a five minute long-board skate away and they could surely manage on their own, I hop in the car.  There is nothing better than getting the lowdown on a day at The Wifflot while the excitement is still brewing, stories spilling out as fast as wiffle balls fly out of the park.  I missed being in the moment all those years I spent in an office.  I’m not missing it now.