Superstitions

My life in the summer means high school baseball games almost every night. Our family has been zig-zagging the state over the last 6 weeks, traveling to games as far away as Pella, Knoxville and Carroll; many days leaving Boone mid-afternoon and not getting home until 11:00.

The games have been fun to watch, as the boys are having a good season, and are undefeated (so far) in our conference. It's great to see them playing well, but we know that each night is different. We see many players go from a hitting slump, to a night hitting balls that sends outfielders running to the fence. 

Baseball is truly a game of inches, and it's amazing how "mental" it can be. The boys often feel baffled as to the reason they are hitting well, or striking out repeatedly. Each player stands at the plate and has to "read" the ball as it comes out of the pitcher's hand, deciding in less than a split second if he are going to swing or not. Position of the hips, elbows, and shoulders also affect whether the hit will be an easy-to-field grounder, a lazy fly to the outfield, or a squarely hit ball that burns past the short-stop. All outside edges of the strike zone get pitched to, and it's easy for the guys to fall victim to curve balls and change-ups. 

With all those tiny little details to attend to, I see my son, his team-mates, and even the dads in the bleachers become superstitious. After a good night at the plate, they attempt to keep the luck going by wearing the same t-shirt, parking their car in a certain spot, or some other silly little ritual. Ben played with a sore wrist one day, so he had it wrapped with athletic tape. He hit the ball unusually well that game, so I wasn't surprised to see his wrist taped for several days after that.  I usually roll my eyes at these quirky behaviors, and prefer to shoot up a silent prayer each time Ben goes up to bat. A week or so ago, even I got sucked into this superstitious thinking. 

One day, in an effort to be a good mom, I got organized and prepared a big mid-day meal. Since we're gone every night, it's impossible to cook a healthy evening meal and we live on sandwiches and fast food. That day, Ben went off to his game fortified with homemade ham balls and cheesy potatoes, and he slammed the ball to the outfield nearly every time he went to bat. I was so happy for him, but silently crediting his success to the hearty pre-game meal I'd prepared. For the next several days, my faulty thinking kept me as busy as a farm wife at harvest time, slaving away to make a meal that would stick to Ben's ribs and help him  be successful at his game.

Well...as you probably predicted, there wasn't any power in the ham balls after all... or enchilada casserole, meat loaf, or chicken fettuccine alfredo. Ben's performance at his games is only a product of his motivation, mental focus and a variety of small adjustments in his batting stance and swing. 

Today I'm making french dip sandwiches for lunch...only because I want the whole family to have something nutritious before we drive to Norwalk. Ben has my prayers, and beyond that, he doesn't need my help out there.