Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 25
Team Sports

The announcement came over Saturday breakfast. Patrick set down his coffee mug and smiled at Ash. "We're going to start doing some activities together. Real father-son stuff."

Ash looked up from his oatmeal. "What kind of activities?"

"T-ball! There's a league at the community center for two and three-year-olds. Practice is Saturday mornings, games on Sundays." Patrick's enthusiasm was genuine, almost boyish. "I used to play baseball in high school. Always wanted to teach you."

"I'm not good at sports."

"You don't have to be good. You just have to try and have fun." Patrick reached over and ruffled Ash's hair. "Besides, you're two. Nobody expects you to be good. It's just about learning basics and being part of a team."

Shannon emerged from the kitchen with more coffee. "And I signed us up for Mommy and Me swim classes! They start Wednesday mornings at the Y. Won't that be fun?"

Swimming. T-ball. Organized activities with other toddlers and their parents.

Public performance. Being seen. Interacting with strangers who'd treat him like he was actually two years old.

"I don't want to," Ash said quietly.

"Honey, you need activities," Shannon said gently but firmly. "You can't just stay home all the time. Socialization is important for development."

"I socialize with Miss Jessica."

"That's therapy, not socialization. You need to be around other children your age. Learn to play in groups." Shannon sat down with her coffee. "These classes will be good for you. I promise."

Wednesday morning arrived too quickly. Shannon got Ash dressed in swim trunks—little blue ones with cartoon fish on them—and packed a bag with towels and a change of clothes.

"You're going to love swimming," she said as they drove to the YMCA. "The water feels so nice, and you'll make friends with the other children."

The pool area was humid and echoing with voices. Several mothers (and a few fathers) stood in the shallow end with toddlers, the instructor—a cheerful woman in her thirties named Miss Amy—organizing everyone.

"Welcome! Is this your first class?" Miss Amy approached them, smiling down at Ash. "Hi there! What's your name?"

"Noam," Ash mumbled.

"Great to meet you, Noam! I'm Miss Amy. We're going to have so much fun today!" She turned to Shannon. "Go ahead and get in the water with him. We'll start with some warm-up exercises."

Shannon carried Ash down the steps into the shallow end. The water was warm but still made Ash gasp slightly. It came up to his chest when standing, to Shannon's waist.

"See? Not so bad," Shannon said, holding him securely. "Just relax."

"Okay everyone!" Miss Amy called out. "Let's start by getting comfortable in the water. Parents, help your little ones splash around. Get their faces wet if they're comfortable with it."

Shannon crouched down so the water was at Ash's shoulders. "Let's splash! Like this." She demonstrated, hands cupping water and sending up small splashes.

Ash stood rigid, arms tight at his sides. Around them, other toddlers were giggling and splashing, some crying, some already comfortable in the water.

"Come on, sweetie. Just try." Shannon took his hands and helped him make splashing motions. Water flew up, hitting his face. He sputtered.

"Good! You're doing great!" Shannon praised. "Let's do it again."

The class continued with basic exercises—blowing bubbles in the water, practicing kicking while Shannon held him, learning to put his face in briefly. It was all very simple, very gentle, designed for toddlers just beginning to be water-safe.

But Ash was hyperaware of the other parents watching, the other toddlers nearby, the public nature of this performance. Shannon holding him in the water like an infant, praising every tiny accomplishment, treating him exactly like the other parents treated their actual two-year-olds.

"Excellent work today, Noam!" Miss Amy said at the end. "See you next week!"

In the locker room, Shannon changed him out of the wet swim trunks and into dry clothes. "You did wonderful for your first class! I'm so proud of you."

"I didn't do anything."

"You got in the water. You tried the exercises. You participated." Shannon dried his hair with a towel. "That's exactly what you were supposed to do."

Saturday morning brought T-ball. Patrick loaded a small baseball glove and plastic bat into the car, practically bouncing with excitement.

"This is going to be great, buddy. You're going to love it."

The community center's field had been modified for tiny players—bases close together, a large plastic tee holding an oversized soft ball, everything scaled down for toddler proportions.

About a dozen children milled around with their parents. Coach Mike, a dad-type in his forties with a whistle and clipboard, gathered everyone together.

"Alright team! Welcome to Little Sluggers T-ball! We're going to have fun, learn some basics, and make friends. Who's ready to play?"

Some toddlers cheered. Others looked confused. One was crying and clinging to his mother.

Ash stood next to Patrick, small glove on his even smaller hand, feeling ridiculous.

"Let's start with warm-ups!" Coach Mike led them through simple exercises—jumping jacks that most toddlers couldn't coordinate, running in place, stretching. Patrick helped Ash with each motion, his hands guiding, his voice encouraging.

"Great job! You're a natural!"

They moved to batting practice. Each child got a turn at the tee while their parent helped. When Ash's turn came, Patrick positioned him in front of the tee, helped him grip the plastic bat.

"Just swing and try to hit the ball. It's okay if you miss."

The first swing missed completely. The second hit the tee instead of the ball. The third connected—barely—sending the ball rolling a few feet.

"Yes! Great hit!" Patrick was genuinely excited. "Run to first base!"

Ash ran—toddled, really—to the first base marker. Patrick jogged alongside him, cheering. The other parents clapped. Coach Mike blew his whistle.

"Excellent! Who's next?"

They rotated through activities. Learning to catch (most balls were dropped). Learning to throw (most throws went sideways). Learning to field ground balls (mostly just chasing the ball when it rolled past).

It was chaos. Organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Toddlers running in wrong directions. Parents helping, encouraging, laughing. Coach Mike keeping everyone on task with remarkable patience.

And Ash found himself... not hating it.

The physical activity felt good. His toddler body liked running and swinging and moving. The praise from Patrick was constant and warm. The other kids were too focused on their own struggles to judge his.

"Water break!" Coach Mike called. Parents distributed sippy cups and juice boxes.

Patrick handed Ash a juice box, sat beside him on the grass. "You're doing great out there. Really great."

"I can't catch."

"Nobody can catch at two years old. That's not the point." Patrick squeezed his shoulder. "The point is trying. Having fun. Being part of the team."

After practice, several parents gathered near the parking lot, chatting while their toddlers played on the nearby playground. Patrick joined them, keeping one eye on Ash who was standing uncertainly near the slide.

"First day?" one dad asked.

"Yeah. He did great though." Patrick's voice carried that proud father tone. "Real trooper."

"They're all troopers at this age. Mine cried for the first three weeks." The dad laughed. "Now he won't leave the field."

Ash climbed the slide steps slowly. Sat at the top. Another toddler—a little girl with pigtails—climbed up behind him.

"Go! Go down!" she said impatiently.

Ash slid down. The girl followed immediately, laughing. They both ran back to the stairs.

This time they went down together, the girl shrieking with delight. Ash found his mouth quirking into something almost like a smile.

They went down three more times before Patrick called that it was time to go.

"Make a friend?" Patrick asked, buckling Ash into the car seat.

"I guess. We just went down the slide."

"That's how friendships start at your age. Parallel play, shared activities." Patrick started the car. "Next week there's practice again, and then Sunday is our first game."

"Game?"

"Don't worry, it's not competitive. Everyone gets to bat, nobody keeps score. It's just for fun."

Wednesday's swim class was easier than the first. Ash knew what to expect now. Got into the water without as much resistance, participated in the exercises without Shannon having to coax constantly.

Miss Amy noticed. "Look at Noam! He's so much more comfortable today. Great progress!"

They practiced kicking while holding the edge of the pool. Practiced blowing bubbles. Did a "ring around the rosie" game where everyone held hands in a circle and splashed together.

One of the other toddlers—a boy named Marcus—kept splashing water at Ash. Not meanly, just playing. After the third splash, Ash splashed back.

Marcus giggled. Splashed again. Ash splashed again.

"Gentle splashing, boys," Shannon said, but she was smiling. "Save some water for the pool."

After class, Marcus's mom approached Shannon. "They seem to get along! We should set up a playdate sometime."

"That would be wonderful! Noam could use more friends his age."

A playdate. With Marcus. With an actual toddler who thought Ash was also an actual toddler.

Saturday's T-ball practice found Ash actually looking forward to it. Not consciously, not admitting it even to himself. But his body was alert when Patrick loaded the gear, his heart rate elevated with something like anticipation.

This week they worked on running bases. The toddlers lined up, each taking a turn to run from home to first, first to second, all the way around. Most didn't understand the concept. Some ran backwards. One kid just sat down on second base and refused to move.

Ash ran the bases in the right order. Patrick jogged alongside him, cheering at each base reached.

"Faster! You can do it! Almost there!"

Crossing home plate felt oddly satisfying. Patrick scooped him up, spun him around. "That's my boy! Perfect run!"

The girl from last week—pigtails, whose name turned out to be Emma—partnered with Ash for a catching drill. They stood a few feet apart, parents helping, rolling a ball back and forth.

Most rolls went off-target. Most catches were missed. But occasionally the ball went where it should, landed in a glove, and both kids and parents cheered like it was the World Series.

"Good teamwork!" Coach Mike called. "Emma and Noam, excellent cooperation!"

After practice, Emma grabbed Ash's hand and pulled him toward the playground. "Swing! Push me!"

Her mom laughed. "She's bossy. Noam, you don't have to—"

But Ash was already following Emma to the swings. She climbed into one—needed help from her mom—and looked at Ash expectantly.

"Push!"

Ash gave the swing a small push. Emma squealed. "More!"

He pushed again. And again. Emma laughed each time, her legs kicking out.

Patrick and Emma's mom watched from nearby. "They're sweet together," Emma's mom said.

"He's still getting used to being around other kids. This is really good for him."

Sunday brought the first "game." Both teams were actually just the same group of kids split in half, with Coach Mike running everything to make sure everyone got turns.

Ash batted twice—got one solid hit, missed completely on the other. Played "field" which mostly meant standing in the grass watching other kids chase balls. Ran the bases once when he managed to hit.

Patrick was in the outfield with the other parents whose kids were fielding, helping corral balls, keeping toddlers on task. He caught Ash's eye and waved, giving a thumbs up.

At the end, Coach Mike gave everyone participation ribbons. "Great first game, Little Sluggers! Everyone did amazing!"

The ribbon was blue with a baseball on it and said "Little Sluggers T-ball" in cheerful letters. Ash held it while Patrick drove home, looking at the shiny ribbon that proclaimed he'd participated in a toddler sport.

"Should we hang that in your room?" Patrick asked. "Show everyone what an athlete you are?"

"It's just a participation ribbon."

"That's what makes it special. It means you participated. You were part of the team. You showed up and tried." Patrick pulled into the driveway. "I'm really proud of you, buddy."

By the third week, the routine was established. Wednesday morning swim class, Saturday morning T-ball practice, Sunday morning games.

Ash knew the other kids' names now. Played with Emma and Marcus regularly. Could catch the ball maybe one time in five. Could swim with his face in the water for three seconds. Could run the bases without needing Patrick to guide him.

Was making "developmental progress" that Shannon reported to Miss Jessica and the facility and anyone who asked.

Was being a good sport, a team player, a socialized child.

Was participating in age-appropriate group activities with genuine engagement.

One Sunday after a game, Emma's mom invited them for lunch. "Just a casual playdate. Emma's been asking about Noam all week."

Shannon accepted immediately. "That sounds lovely!"

They went to Emma's house—a suburban home similar to the Walshes'. Emma's mom set the kids up in the living room with toys while the adults ate in the dining room, visible but not hovering.

Emma immediately pulled out a play kitchen set. "You cook. I'll serve."

They played house. Ash pretending to cook plastic food on a plastic stove while Emma set a plastic table. It was simple pretend play, the kind Miss Jessica had been teaching him.

Emma's little brother—nine months old, actually nine months—crawled nearby. Emma periodically stopped playing to pat his head. "Baby Jake. He's little."

"Yeah."

"You're big," Emma declared. "You're two. I'm three. We're big kids."

"Yeah," Ash agreed. Because to Emma, that was true. He was a big kid. Not a baby, but not really big either. Just a kid.

Just like her.

Shannon and Emma's mom chatted over coffee. Ash caught fragments—complimenting each other's parenting, discussing developmental milestones, making plans for another playdate.

On the drive home, Shannon was effusive. "You did so well! Playing with Emma, being polite, sharing toys. Emma's mom said you're welcome back anytime."

"Okay."

"I think Emma really likes you. It's nice that you have a friend now."

A friend. Emma, who was three years old. Who thought Ash was two. Who saw him as a playmate, a fellow kid, someone on her level.

And Ash had played with her naturally. Had followed her lead in pretend games. Had participated without resistance or internal screaming.

Had just... played.

That night, the blue ribbon from T-ball was pinned to his nursery wall. Shannon had arranged it next to the height chart, creating a little display of his "achievements."

Ash stared at it from the crib. A participation ribbon for toddler baseball. Evidence that he'd showed up, tried, been part of a team.

Evidence that he was adapting. Socializing. Making friends and playing sports and doing all the things two-year-olds did.

Not because he was forced. Not because he was being constantly disciplined into compliance.

But because it had become normal. Because his body enjoyed the activity. Because playing with other kids felt natural. Because being part of a team satisfied some social need his brain created, even knowing it was toddler t-ball.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to the dark. "I'm twenty-four years old."

But he'd played house with Emma today. Had cooked plastic food and set a plastic table and engaged in pretend play without Miss Jessica there to guide him.

Had made a friend who thought he was two.

Had enjoyed T-ball and swimming and running bases and splashing in the pool.

Had a participation ribbon pinned to his nursery wall that he felt oddly proud of, even knowing how ridiculous it was to be proud of a toddler sports participation award.

Five thousand seven hundred and fifty-nine days to go.

But Wednesday would bring swimming. Saturday would bring T-ball. Emma might invite him over again. Marcus might splash him in the pool. Patrick would cheer when he hit the ball. Shannon would praise his progress.

And Ash would participate. Would play. Would be part of the team.

Because that's what he did now.

That's who he was.

Not Ash the artist who'd lived in a shitty apartment and struggled with addiction.

But Noam the toddler who played T-ball with his dad and went swimming with his mom and had friends his age who thought he was just like them.

And somewhere along the way—somewhere between the first swing of the bat and the third swim class and playing house with Emma—it had stopped feeling like performance.

Had started feeling like life.

Just life.

His life.

And he didn't know when that shift had happened.

Only that it had.

And he was too tired to fight it anymore.

Too comfortable in the routine to remember why he'd resisted so hard.

Too engaged with his T-ball team and swim class and friendship with Emma to care that he was supposed to be someone else.

He closed his eyes.

And dreamed of hitting the ball perfectly, running all the bases, everyone cheering.

Simple dreams.

Good dreams.

The dreams of a child who'd had a good day playing sports with his friends.

And in the morning, he'd wake up and maybe there'd be a practice or a class or a playdate.

And he'd participate.

And it would be fine.

Better than fine.

It would be normal.

His normal.

Noam's normal.

And Ash—whoever that had been—was getting harder to remember with each passing day.