Having been around sports in one way or another for more than 30 years, I have long since come to terms with the fact that sometimes athletes get hurt. I’ve seen guys break their legs, blow out their knees and snap their Achilles tendons. I have personally taken a few basketballs in the nose, sprained my ankles and overextended myself so far that I’ve had to stop and lay down in the middle of the playing field so as not to faint.

Until last night, I felt rather cavalier about sports injuries. It happens. It’s part of the game. It hurts for a few minutes, but you walk it off, rub some dirt on it, squirt some Windex on it, take a deep breath and get back in the game.

But it’s funny how seeing one’s own son get drilled in the nuts by a baseball changes one’s perspective.

The sun sets behind right field in the late innings on the field where my kid’s team plays, meaning batters look directly into the blinding glare. In the fifth inning, he was playing in the pitcher’s spot (the batters hit balls pitched by a machine, so the pitcher stands next to the contraption). It was a win-or-go-home playoff game against the Dodgers and we were trying to protect a lead. I was standing near the right field foul line, failing miserably in my attempt to keep our outfielders focused on the game instead of the shiny black stinkbugs that scurry through the outfield grass.

Suddenly, a hit.

The ball shot through the gap between first and second base, right into the waiting glove of our right-fielder, Nate. The runner was lightning quick (by seven-year-old standards), so Nate made the proper decision to throw the ball in to the pitcher (which in our league means the play is over and the runners must stay where they are).

The next five seconds passed in super slow motion. Since I was standing about 10 feet from Nate, I saw the flight and velocity of his throw from the perfect perspective. I’ve been watching Little League baseball for several years now, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a more perfect throw. It was right on target to the pitcher, my son, whose body was facing Nate’s incoming throw but whose eyes were blinded by the extraordinary glare of the son behind Nate. Ready or not, that ball was incoming, but he never saw the ball.

Boof! Right in the nuts.

My beautiful boy fell to the ground like he’d been shot and curled himself into the fetal position. The coaches from both teams ran to him, as did I. By the time I got there from way out in right field, the coach from the Dodgers (*cough* ASSHOLE! *cough*) had forced my kid to stand up and was pushing him in the back.

“Walk,” he was saying. “The best thing to do for this is walk.”

My boy was crying, doubled-over, hardly able to walk.

When I made it to his side, I physically removed the hand of the Dodgers coach (*cough* COCKSUCKER! *cough*) from my son’s person.

“He has to walk,” the coach continued. “Make him walk.”

Had we not been surrounded by seven-year-olds, and had my daughter not been crying in the bleachers because she was scared for her brother, and had I not been concerned for my son and his balls and my future grandchildren, I’m fairly certain I would have said something about that guy’s mama.
“I’ll take it from here, coach,” I said. “He’s my son.”

My poor kid. He was hurt and scared and embarrassed to be crying in front of his teammates. I hugged him. I told him he was OK and that I know it hurts really bad but it will go away in a few minutes. I could see him trying to be brave, trying to will his tear ducts closed, trying to do the things men and boys in our culture instinctively do when they find themselves getting emotional.

“It hurts, daddy.”

“I know, buddy. Do you want to go take a seat in the dugout for a little bit?”

He shook his head no. He’s a tough, stubborn kid, and I tried to soothe my own nerves by interpreting his determination to play on as a sign that he was going to be alright. I needed that to be true. For me. For him. For his mom and sister.

After about five minutes or so, he began to wipe the tears from his eyes. His face changed from anguish to determination.

“I’m OK,” he said. “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You don’t have to be brave.”

He shook his head no again and moved his shoulders and arms so as to wiggle free from my embrace. Then he walked back to his spot on the field and punched the pocket of his baseball glove with his bare fist. Game on.

“I guess that officially makes you a baseball player,” I said to him. “You can’t be legit until you’ve taken one in the junk.”

He smiled and punched his mitt again.

(Note to self: don’t forget the kid’s cup next time.)

I felt out of sorts as I walked back to my position in right field. We seemed to have just crossed a threshold of some sort. When the ball first hit him and I rushed to him, he was still a little boy who was scared and hurt. He needed his daddy, and I suppose it was satisfying to me to be needed (in spite of the shitty circumstances). One of fatherhood’s greatest gifts is the opportunity to be there to support one’s kids, to protect them, to soothe them. To feel needed. To come through for one’s kids when they need their daddy. To me, there is no truer representation of “being a man.”

But something changed when he started to feel better, when he started to realize he was going to be OK. He wanted me to go away. He wanted to shed my embrace, to excuse himself from the protection I was giving him and get on with the game. At some imaginary moment during that five-minute span, he found his independence. He discovered that there are decisions he can make and behaviors he can inhabit on his own, without his daddy shielding him and soothing him and rubbing his back.

I don’t know how to feel about that yet. Here I thought he was still my little kid – the boy who still needs help flossing his teeth, still wants every toy he sees advertised on TV, still wants his mom and me to lay on his bed with him for a few minutes before he goes to sleep.

But yesterday I saw the porcelain shell that is his little boyhood begin to crack and break, and underneath it was a new boy I wasn’t ready to see. I’m not done being needed by him. I’m not done holding his hand when we cross the street. I’m not done helping him brush and floss. I’m not ready for this.

But I don’t think I have a choice.

Comments

If it's an comfort...I don't think they ever really stop needing you. My mum could attest to that - Big Brother and I still call her regularly, and once in a while she still gets to make it all better. It doesn't go away, it just...changes.

Shade and Sweetwater,
K

I'm 30 years of age.

I've taken blows the the nuts, literally and metaphorically, many times over the years, and all I can say is he'll need you, one way or another, for a long time to come yet.

Nice.

(or at least as nice as a story about a shunt in the gonads can be)

This might be my favorite post ever.

you know, right?, that the need won't go away, it'll just evolve. don't despair.

xo.

Man... If you just would have gotten the kid a nut cup then I wouldn't have to be all weepy now. You big jerk.

These words of yours are awesome...you put the issue perfectly.

But....my husband's daddy (yes, my 6'4" dh has always referred to him as such, we are southern dammit) died last year at only 65 years of age, and it has been an emotional rollercoaster that I never anticipated. Not because Michael lets it show, he doesn't, but I can see it, I am his wife. I knew we would miss him. I knew Michael would grieve. But I didn't realize that at 30 years old my husband would finally be forced to finish becoming the "man" of the family and that it wouldn't be a nicely attained rite of passage. He hurts everyday because he can't consult his daddy about his decisions and life issues. Michael has always made his own choices, whatever his dad's advice was. But just having him there, to give his experience and opinion, well, it was a life raft that no longer exists.

So, before this comment becomes length-worthy of its own blog, I am just trying to say that boys who are raised by good and strong fathers that love them securely will never, ever stop needing them. Never. They will always long for that security that daddy brings. Even if they themselves are now strong and secure fathers.

I hear ya - my little boy is almost 3 and one of my favorite rituals is every morning as we're dropping him off at daycare, getting my kiss goodbye for the day...and usually having him delay our leaving by him by getting extra kisses - how many more years am I going to have that before he's too cool to have his Old Man kiss him in front of his friends?

I'm right there with you, pal. Very well said.

The combination of horror at the injury and pride for his ability to overcome it was enough to make me cry. But then you add the "Fiddler on the Roof" Sunrise Sunset coda and I lose my shit right here at work.
Nice job. I hope you are happy.

The thought of this kind of between-the-legs mishap potentially happening to my son someday makes me cringe more than when he pinches himself down there when I change his diaper. It makes me hope he will take up an instrument instead of a sport.

You're good. He'll always need you, just differently.

At my nephew's little league game last week, he took a ball righ in the eye socket. We all heard the crack in the stands, and I have to say, I have never seen my sister move so fast to the edge of the field where they told her to wait for him. Five minutes later, tears smudged off his cheek, he was determined to go to bat. He brought two runners home and landed on third. Best hit he ever made.

He got the game ball and a huge black eye to show for it.

At my nephew's little league game last week, he took a ball righ in the eye socket. We all heard the crack in the stands, and I have to say, I have never seen my sister move so fast to the edge of the field where they told her to wait for him. Five minutes later, tears smudged off his cheek, he was determined to go to bat. He brought two runners home and landed on third. Best hit he ever made.

He got the game ball and a huge black eye to show for it.

Nothing like seeing somebody get "drilled in the nuts" to send groin pain through every male in the stands. You are correct, it is a sort of rite-of-passage for young boys. You take the hit, you whimper, you feel like you have the worst case of gas you've ever had, and eventually you get up and get back after it. Funny thing is, even when he's twenty he'll have the same reaction, and he'll still hope to see his dad in the stands.

Great Post Danny. Great.

I once slipped and fell balls-first on the corner of an end table... I couldn't walk straight for a week.

I have such a huge lump in my throat right now! I can only imagine how you feel...

Just so you know, he will always need you. This was the best described junk hit ever.

Oh, you made me cry - because I remember those moments too, and now my beautiful boy is going to college next fall. I don't wanna be superfluous. But I guess it's the way things are ...

One of the best posts ever!!!
Now, you got me all teary eyed too. My oldest will start Junior High in September and I am not ready to let go yet. He has changed so much in the last year, but I know in my heart he will always be my baby.
That is how life treats us. We DONT have a choice.

Gulp. My eyes are burning. But so help me, if this is some kind of tactic to get me to play Candyland again, I won't fall for it. I've never been so happy as when my kids were old enough to stop playing that game.

As for the cup...I don't know if it's worth it to bring it, because the boys at our ballfield tend to spend the games knocking on their junk shields, and not paying attention to the game. Which, of course, leaves them likely to get a ball upside the head.

My boy (who I think is around the same age as yours) has been pulling away from me for a while now when I try to hug him when he's upset. It's all happened too early for me. I rememeber my huggy wee boy.

But something else has happened. I got upset recently and he came over to hug me to comfort me instead. That's your swings and roundabouts for you, right there.

Start blubbing, see what he does.

sucks for you! my little one is going to stay small forever!

Have another one. That's what we do.

I was a catcher, probably about 9, my Dad was an assistant coach. I got one in the junk and began the process of rolling about the ground with my equipment still on. I'm sure that everyone in the area felt my pain, but my Dad came up to me and said "Don't rub it." I couldn't help but start to laugh through the tears.

Nice post.

You are a jerk. I'm WEEPING.

Not that that's unusual for me, but I don't usually gear myself up for that here.

Very, very well put. I love reading posts about your son, because we have a 7-year old, he's in his 3rd year of baseball and we're BUYING HIM A CUP TOMORROW.

but he's still my baby.

*choking back sobs*

Now let's all sing, "Sunrise, Sunset."

Yeeeeowch!! It hurts all over. My bro played BB as a kid and, ooh man. You're kid's not a quitter and it's a great feeling for them when they realize they'll be oo-kay. My 3rd loves kicking ass in soccer. She'll play and get kicked, tripped or elbowed by kids twicew her size and never quit. Get her through the door at home and she'll fall to pieces over her hair being out of place. Go figure.
Good for him and I hope you like what will come out of that baby shell, DGM. It's all good!

Yeeeeowch!! It hurts all over. My bro played BB as a kid and, ooh man. You're kid's not a quitter and it's a great feeling for them when they realize they'll be oo-kay. My 3rd loves kicking ass in soccer. She'll play and get kicked, tripped or elbowed by kids twicew her size and never quit. Get her through the door at home and she'll fall to pieces over her hair being out of place. Go figure.
Good for him and I hope you like what will come out of that baby shell, DGM. It's all good!

I'm with Wondersis and Carolyn.

Cue "Sunrise, Sunset".

Awesome story, D.

Wow. In all honesty I did not expect a story, about your son getting nailed in the nuts, to cause me to get all emotional. Excuse me...I have something in both my eyes.

Oh God, my son just turned two and when I read posts like this all I can see is my broken heart in a few years! I decided while I was pregnant that parenthood is a series of prideful moments and heartbreaks... Sometimes both at once. I also enjoy reading about being hit in the balls then sad stuff, because when I start to sniffle I can just scroll back up...

We were just in a head on collision with a drunk driver on Sunday - on Mother's Day no less. Both my boys are fine no thanks to the drunk driver (cough *Mother Fucker Who I'd Like to Drive in the Nuts With a Kajillion Baseballs* cough), but I now never want them to grow up and not need me.

I can only imagine how hard that is. I am not looking forward to the day when he pushes me away. I love your definition of "being a man" - I agree one million percent and The Man fits the profile. It's awesome.

So sweet! Your son will always need you...just in different ways. Great post!

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You don’t have to be brave.”

Dude, seriously?

A+ on the parenting report card.

You're an amazing dad.

I watch my oldest land on her hip and head ten times in a row trying to master a lutz jump. It's hard. It's so hard.

I have a 2 year old going through Chemo. He has prove to be a though and resilient kid. He still runs to me and clutches my leg everytime any loud noise comes about around him. But I know how you feel when you say, your not ready. Because now, he is determined to not let me feed him. He yells "NO!" and insists that he do it himself. Just recently he started disliking the fact that I help him up when he falls down. He brushes me off meaning "Let me do it". I was not ready for this but like you said, "we really dont have a choice". For me the only thing that rivals being a U.S. Marine is being a Father. I am still debating which one is more challenging.

-T. Lizalde
SSgt/USMC

Ouch! Poor guy. Now I get why a friend of mine tells me about how his Little League coach would line the kids up before every game and practice, bring out a bat and ask the kids if they were ready for a tap. Apparently, kids always remembered whether or not they were wearing a cup before the coach got to them. Yep, this is the friend who bought Mister Man a glove and a cup for his first birthday.

And I'm definitely remembering this when he gets old enough to actually play.

Awww, your little boy is growing up!

This is such a nice story - and trust me - the day will come when you wish this was the biggest hurt your little boy ever has. Wait till he becomes interested in girls....

Time for the next phase of your job. While it hurts to slowly stop being a little boy's daddy, now you get to feel the pride of building a good man out of that little boy. There's no more important job in the world. Thanks for sharing Danny. You're an example to a lot of people.

aww, you made this mama tearful! Very nice post. Raising boys is a challenge of contrasts. Thank you for sharing a dad's perspective. I'd suggest ventriloquist training - that way you could get those words OUT and blame it on the umpire.

Kim

It's hard when they start growing up and leaving us behind little by little. But very satisfying as well, it's how we know we're doing our jobs.

Great post...dude, please remember the damn cup from now on, eh?!?

Aww, Danny this is a great post. I can remember clearly when I was out on the softball diamonds in southeastern Oklahoma as a kid, trying my best to be "tough girl", so I could keep on playing after getting pegged with a line drive.

I'm sure my mother was dying inside, and probably felt similar to how you feel about The Champ.

Good job making a post about a line drive to the junk touching! My boy just turned ten and has asked me to stop kissing and hugging him in public, apparently he will be labeled as a mother lover by his friends if his mama kisses him. (And apparently, loving your mother is not cool when you are ten.)

Aw man! Thanks for making me cry right after I put on mascara. Could you do something with your next post that lets me stay in denial of the fact that my kids will one day grow up and leave me?

Aww, you made this mom cry.

That brought tears to my eyes. I completely understand the not being ready thing.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder who in the hell *let* me be a parent because there are so many moments on their way already that I'm almost certain I can't deal with, I'm not prepared for, I just don't think I can handle. {ache}

Hot Wife is one lucky gal.

"But yesterday I saw the porcelain shell that is his little boyhood begin to crack and break, and underneath it was a new boy I wasn’t ready to see. I’m not done being needed by him. I’m not done holding his hand when we cross the street. I’m not done helping him brush and floss. I’m not ready for this.

But I don’t think I have a choice."~DGM

Excellent. I loved this post very much. I can totally relate to that feeling of not wanting to let go. Its why I still let him drink his bottle in the morning and love the fact that he sits peacefully in the stroller instead of running along like a big boy. Powerful writing DGM!

There's nothing original I can say here, so I'll just say that this is an extremely well-written piece.

Awwww, don't worry. He'll always need you. I once threw a wrench at my brother's nuts when he was 17 (I wasn't aiming--I'm that good), and he went crying to my dad about it.

"I’m fairly certain I would have said something about that guy’s mama."
I dunno why, but that cracked me right up...

Damn you for the "porcelain shell" stuff - made me get all teary.

What a touching post.