It Ain't Easy being the Pitcher's Mom

If you have ever been to a little league, high school or even post high school baseball game, there is no doubt you can find the mom of the pitcher.  Some are easier to spot than others.  She may be pacing. She might be hiding her head because she can’t “stand to watch”.  She might be holding and rubbing her Rosary beads.  Or maybe she has her eyes closed murmuring some type of hex on the batter.  Regardless, it isn't easy being the mom of a pitcher. 

Leading up to the start of a game in which Tyler is pitching, I am always uneasy. Although I love to watch my kid pitch, you never know what you are going to see, so I live with a fluctuating level of anxiety which can hit its peak during an inning. Actually, there are scientific levels of anxiety which are located on a continuum from queasy to panic. My own Theory of Anxiety is somewhat complex, but I tend to grade anxiety as follows:

Low level: uneasiness.........start eating licorice…

Moderate level: start biting acrylic nails...mumbles to self...say little to me....

Panic: constant movement...mumbling to self now includes cuss words.....more licorice......don't talk to me….

When I know Tyler is pitching, I like to suppress the high level of anxiety which might start to percolate. I never know what traffic is going to be like or if I am going to find the field, so I leave early.  I’m usually there in time to watch warm-ups and take pictures of the boys during pre-game.  I always try to be prepared for anything.  I carry extra clothes for him and myself as well as loads of “stuff” in my baseball mom bag…even down to safety pins. 

I remember when Tyler was little.  We spent countless hours doing anything associated with baseball.  Watching baseball movies,  reading baseball books, singing baseball songs, playing catching, running bases, hitting homeruns….you name it, and I swear he and I played it during every summer day.  He couldn’t decide if he wanted to be a “catcher up”…the umpire, or the “catcher down”…the catcher. 

 But my little boy became a pitcher.  He’s pretty darn good too.

Tyler started pitching when he was 7 years old. I was a pitcher once upon a time but it was for slow pitch softball.  This was different.  Times are different.   

There was my kiddo, standing out there in front of God and everyone, throwing strikes. Lots of them. For a pitcher's mom, the strike-three call is like some audible form of a candygram packed full of deliciousness. 

But Tyler isn’t perfect.

I’d love to say that my son strikes out every batter he faces.  That he never struggles on the mound.  That he has great command of every pitch he throws.  That I never ate a whole bag of licorice during one inning of a game but I can’t.  He’s human.  And as every mom of a pitcher knows, it’s not easy to watch them struggle.  That feeling of helplessness you feel as you watch your little boy (even 6’3” ones) alone on that mound of dirt. 

It’s painful watching him fidget awkwardly on the hill, fiddling with the waistband of his baseball pants.  You know that he is a nervous-wreck, completely out of sorts. You watch intently for signs that he’ll pull through it.  Sometimes it seems that he doesn’t know where to stand, where to throw the ball or how to step into his throw.  Has he completely forgotten everything he’d ever learned about baseball, especially how to throw his beautiful fast ball that brushes the inside corner?

From the stands, the pitcher’s mom is helpless. It feels like you are on land watching your son drown just beyond your reach.  You try sending telepathic messages to your son.  You mentally say things like, “Ignore the batter, just play catch with catcher” and “Follow through, put it right in there”.  You watch for a sign from him that he received your telepathic message…

When that doesn’t seem to work, the messages that you tried sending via brainwaves come blurting out.

 “You can do it, show ‘em what you got!” “Give ‘em the heater!”

My intent is to calm him down, and get him to pitch how I know he can, how he knows he can pitch, with all the speed and control of a boy who practices countless hours.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  But deep down I know that my intent is to calm myself down.  To try and deal with the helpless feeling that overtakes my body when I see him struggle. 

There have been times that it feels like he is out there for 30 minutes.  Thirty minutes of me blurting out commands, and him struggling through the batting rotation.  More often than not, he gets out of the inning, albeit with his cup somewhere near his belly button, with no runs scoring. I swear innings like that take years off my life!

But there are times when the coach makes that walk to the mound.  I hold my breath the entire time.  I watch my son’s face as his coach speaks with him.  I look for signs….is he staying in?  Is the coach pulling him?  I’ve been known to mumble a hex or two on the coach during moments like this.   As soon as I see Tyler’s head go down, I know.  I see the coach put out his hand and watch as Tyler drops the ball into it.  My heart aches as I watch my son make the walk from the mound to the dugout.  His head down, his non-glove hand fidgeting with the waistband of his baseball pants. 

“Good job, Tyler”—I yell as the fans clap politely.  In my brain I add, “…its okay, mommy still loves you.” 

At the end of the day, I don’t care if my son’s team wins. I don’t care if he plays in the Majors. I just want him to reach his goal, to be a great pitcher. To have the satisfaction that he’s worked hard, and that his hard work has paid-off. That he can go out there on the mound and “bring it”, that is to say, bring who he is, all his talent and his gifts, and express himself fully.

And if he does make it to the Majors someday, I’ll be there.  And during games that he is pitching, you’ll be able to spot me.  I’ll be the one mumbling to myself with the huge bag of licorice that may or may not be empty depending on how well he is pitching.