Our son Andy’s team was leading by one run in the next-to-the-last inning of the city Little League championship game when the other team’s left-handed slugger came up to the plate. He took his stance aggressively, ready to knock the ball out of the park.
Oh, boy, I thought, here we go.
I glanced Andy’s way anxiously. I couldn’t believe it! He was standing out in right field, gazing up at the sky. “Why is he goofing off now?” I groaned to my wife. “The guy’s going to hit it right to him.”
“Relax,” Mary said. “He’ll be fine. It’s just a game.”
The pitcher delivered to the plate, but Andy was still staring heavenward. I hope he’s praying, I thought as I heard the crack of the bat.
It was a groundout to first. “Yes!” I shouted, relieved that Andy hadn’t embarrassed himself—or me, his backyard coach.
When the inning ended, Andy ran up to us, breathless. I was about to launch into my you’ve-got-to-keep-your-head-in-the-game speech, when he exclaimed, “Dad, did you see that shooting star? I thought it was going to crash into the mountains, but then it just disappeared. It was awesome!”
As he raced off to join his teammates in the dugout, Mary and I smiled at each other. Maybe I was the one who needed to pay more attention. She was right. In the bigger game, Andy was going to do just fine. After all, he had caught a falling star.
