“Please, please, please!” he pleaded. “Won’t you please let me try out for the baseball team?” We stood there in the kitchen, his big brown
eyes locking with my own skeptical ones, trying their hardest to communicate
with me how important this dream was to him.
I was at a loss for an immediate reply. This was a bold request from a
foster child. It would mean a
significant time commitment and expense for our family. What about his schoolwork and grades? How would I juggle the other 5 children in
our home who needed my attention? Would
my consent be the wisest course of action?
I hadn’t known this kid very long - a few
months maybe? He and his younger brother
had been raised by a single mom in a dingy apartment on the other side of town,
in a neighborhood where the streets are lined with broken-down cars instead of
trees. Packed-down dirt instead of
grassy lawns. Where a neon-signed liquor
store might bravely stand on one corner, while a nondescript pawn shop, 24-hour
laundromat or seedy check-cashing business occupies another.
The windows on the houses there tell stories of
their occupants: steel bars on some,
offering slim protection against the prevalent crime; others that have remained
broken, no one bothering to repair them; some that remain open year-round, allowing
the strange smells of ethnic foods to waft outside; and some windows that carry
the sounds of the families inside: babies crying, women screaming, men cursing,
angry music blaring. It’s a transient
sort of community, where no one trusts neighbors or even makes an effort to
know their names.
His mother had eked out a living there, doing
her best to raise her two sons without a husband, family members, or friends to
support and encourage her. She may have even
had a chance at succeeding, except that her drug habit made it impossible to
hold down a job. There were many times
when he and his little brother arrived home from school and found the front
door locked. They knew exactly what that
meant: wait outside until mom and the
man inside were done with their “party.”
The circumstances surrounding him made every attempt to extinguish his
dreams for the future. His hopes for a successful
life.
I really liked this kid who had come to live
with us as our foster child a few months earlier. He was twelve-going-on-thirteen, a boy about
to become a man. He was perpetually optimistic.
In the midst of dark cloudy days, stormy
and dreary, somehow he was always able to find the one ray of sunshine that
managed to sneak through. I looked
forward to the late afternoons when he would arrive home from school, regaling
me with funny anecdotes about his teacher and schoolmates and fellow bus
riders. His sunny outlook permeated our
home.
My heart went out to him, and I wanted to offer
him opportunities that he might not otherwise have had. But when he asked to try out for the baseball
team, I wasn’t sure how we could possibly afford it. My husband and I were a simple twenty-something
couple, buried under college loans and car payments, struggling to keep up with
the mortgage payments on our first house.
At the same time, we were adjusting to living within a single-income budget
now that I had quit working in order to raise these children in our home. How could we possibly fund every child’s
requests for extra-curricular activities?
We finally decided to negotiate with him: if he could raise enough money for the
application and team fee, we would cover the cost of his uniform, baseball
glove, and cleats, as well as provide the transportation to all of his
practices and games. It was the best we
could offer him under the circumstances.
Secretly, I thought that our little deal would
be the last we would hear of his request.
After all, how could a kid who owned nothing ever hope to raise over a
hundred dollars? It might as well have
been a million! It seemed an
insurmountable challenge.
It is a misconception that ugly circumstances
beget ugly children: broken, troubled,
and unruly. Those foster parents must be so amazing, heroic really, to help these
poor children find their way. Not
always. Sometimes it is as if the fiery
crucible of non-functioning families produce children who are diamonds, strong
and invincible and beautiful. All they
need is the right setting and a little bit of polishing, and oh, how they
shine!
Where some kids may have been beaten down and
discouraged by their less than ideal upbringing, this young man’s childhood had
caused him to be resourceful and independent, confident and ambitious. In the school library one day, while looking
through a magazine, he found an advertisement for a fundraising company. “Send in this postcard with your name and contact
information,” it instructed, “and we will send you a catalog.” It promised easy income in a short amount of
time. “Your friends can order items from
the catalog, and for everything you sell, you get to keep a percentage. Send in your postcard today!” And so, expectantly, he did just that.
From the day the catalog arrived, he bravely approached
every adult he knew, asking them to take a look at his catalog and to consider
supporting his future as a baseball player.
Teachers, friends, people at church, his social worker, my husband’s
co-workers. His bicycle became his
constant companion, carrying him all around the neighborhood as he drummed up
business and searched for customers. He
meticulously filled out order forms, collected money, and wrote receipts. I was unexpectedly surprised and extremely
proud of his maturity, responsibility, and unwavering focus on accomplishing
his fundraising goals.
The day his check arrived in the mail was a
joyful occasion indeed! It was if he had
won the lottery! Single-handedly, he had
earned enough money to try out for the team!
And with the little bit of extra funds he had raised, he treated our
family to ice cream to celebrate his achievement. I couldn’t believe this kid: not only was he upbeat, enthusiastic,
hard-working, and steadfast, he was now proving to be grateful and generous as
well. Where did a kid with his
background acquire all of these wonderful characteristics? A lovely diamond, indeed!
And so began his season as a baseball
player. I don’t remember how his team
played, how many games they won or lost.
I vividly remember, however, that he poured himself into practices and
games, body, heart and soul. This wasn’t
just a small community team to him. Oh
no, this was only the first step on his way to the Major League! He even autographed a baseball for us,
promising us free tickets some day when he played shortstop for the Los Angeles
Dodgers.
It’s been almost 20 years since I saw him last,
heading out the door towards the next chapter on his life’s journey. He is an adult now, a young man with a life
of his own. I don’t know what happened
to him after he left my home. I don’t know if he ever became a big-league
baseball player. However, I still have
the baseball he signed. I think of him
often, and continue to be inspired by his confidence and enthusiasm. I am grateful for the impact he unintentionally
made on my life. His resilience was
living proof that, despite a parent’s mistakes and deficiencies, a child’s
spirit can triumph.
Wherever he is today, I hope he has never given
up on his goals for the future. I hope
he still has passion. I hope he has
never stopped dreaming.
No comments:
Post a Comment