Nameless

This is a new world we're heading into.

We don't know what this is, let alone what's it's going to be.

But I'm here with him, no matter what happens.

He's handed a #14 jersey with athletic tape over the name on the back, over the name of a kid who's out for the season after his dad accidentally hit him with a softball and sent him to the hospital with a fractured head.

I forgot the copy of my son's birth certificate. He can't play without it. I left it on my desk at work, 15-20 minutes away. I race to work and back.

He sits in the dugout -- the new kid who knows no one, playing in an elite USSSA league for 9 year olds, the youngest on the team, just turning 8 years old on April Fool's Day -- watching the opposing pitcher throwing flames into the catcher's mitt.

Just the day before, he learned he'd have the opportunity to face this daunting challenge -- thanks to a neighbor who believes in him enough to vouch for him and, unfortunately, thanks to a softball to the face.

Up until now, he's played coaches pitch. If it weren't for the fact that this team was a private squad in a league featuring a parade of 9-year-old all-stars from the rec leagues, he wouldn't be allowed to face a pitcher, because he's not old enough.

"Do you want to do this? Do you realize you might get hit by a pitch? It's a lot faster. There's going to be things you don't know how to do. You're not going to know any of the kids. I can't promise you that you won't make mistakes. But it'll all be OK."

"I want to do it, Daddy."

Up to bat: the Southern Spinners (a tip of the cap to the old, early 1900s textile league semi-pros of Upstate South Carolina; where Shoeless Joe cut his teeth).

Strike out. Strike out. Hit. Strike out.

He sits on the bench, the only kid in the dugout, as the rest of the team takes the field.

After giving up a couple of runs, the Spinners are back up to bat.

I barely am prepared for when he steps into the on-deck circle.

He fires off a few authoratative practice swings, acting more than being the part of a player who is about to face a live pitch for the first time in his life.

I put my head between my legs for a moment; not worried, so much, just doing something with my body to express the visceral nature of the moment.

He steps into the batter's box, the strip of athletic tape leaving him to be labeled "unknown."

"What's his name?" a parent in the stands asks me.

"Asa," I tell her. "A-S-A."

"OK, come on Asa!" she yells.

The kids yell out for him.

"Come on, Asan. You can do it, Asan."

He takes the first pitch.

"Strike!" the umpire exclaims.

He swings at the second pitch. A good cut. "Strike!"

The third comes, above his chin, and he swings.

"Strike three!"

He runs back to the dugout.

"That's all right," the parents yell. "That's all right, Asa."

The coaches tell him not to swing at anything above his hands.

The kids take the field. Again he sits on the bench, alone.

Another inning goes by. And again the kids take the field as he sits alone in the dugout.

I walk over to him, differently than usual. Not in the way I usually do, not when I coached him in basketball, with a steady dose of "Yeah, you think you're awesome, but ..."

Not tonight.

I walk over to the back of the dugout.

"Asa, I want you to know something. It doesn't matter if you hit the ball. Just look for a good pitch to hit. Just do what you do. I don't care if you hit the ball. Just know that I'm over here, and I'm here with you. I'm with you."

He nods his head.

Back into the on-deck circle. And back into the batter's box, nameless, to face what turns out to be one of the best pitchers the team has faced halfway through the season.

He swings at the first pitch. "Strike!"

He swings at the second. "Strike!"

I clasp my hands. Taking nothing for granted. A slight grin on my face, watching my little boy battle his way through something that I never could have done myself. I smile, because I know that just him standing in that box is enough.

Just him going down swinging is enough.

The third pitch ...

"Ping!"

Foul ball.

He got hold of it. He nicked it. Just barely. And he's still alive. Even if he strikes out again, he got hold of it.

He digs his feet back in. He's going down swinging.

The next pitch ...

The pitcher let this one go with a slight hitch ...

It's just a bit slower ...

"You can get this one, son ..."

"I think you can get this one, son ..."

And ...

"PING!"

No name. No fanfare. No expectations.

A single.