Cheering Words

I was curled up in bed when my husband Wes came home from work. He brought me a hurriedly-made plate of dinner and then picked up his keys.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To Joseph’s baseball game. It’s his last one.”

His last game of the season. I hadn’t gone to any of them. Surgery to remove a cancerous tumor from my head, along with subsequent brain radiation and chemotherapy, had left me very weak, partially paralyzed, and somewhat confused about things. I was almost totally bedridden.

So my husband was surprised when I blurted out, “I want to go.”

“Really? Are you sure you can do it?”

I nodded, although I was not at all sure. I only felt that I should go. It might be my last chance to see Joseph play. Ever.

Wes helped me change into clean clothes and get out of bed. He supported me as I slowly walked to the car and he helped me get in. The baseball field was not far away, but it seemed to me like we were traveling to another planet.

I walked from the car toward the field, leaning on Wes all the way. A neighbor had given Joseph a ride to the game, which was more than half over when we got there. The bleachers were filled with parents, grandparents and siblings. I didn’t recognize anyone there. I thought I heard a murmuring run through the spectators as I neared, and although the bleachers were full, the crowd seemed to part as I approached. I knew I looked terrible, and I felt self-conscious as I half-crawled into an empty spot.

I looked out at the field, where ten-year-old boys like my son were dressed in their colorful uniforms. I didn’t recognize any of them, not even Joseph.

I struggled to keep my head upright and my eyes open. Suddenly, Wes nudged me. “Joseph’s up next,” he said.

I straightened up and squinted in the direction of the field. I spotted Joseph, his red hair gleaming in the setting sun. As he moved toward the plate, the crowd of people around me began to stir. It seemed like everyone was making noise now, shouting, “Go, Joseph!” and “You can do it, Joseph!” and “All right, Joseph!”

I was confused. Why was everyone cheering so loudly for Joseph? He was smaller than many of the boys, and not particularly athletically gifted. I had wondered why he even wanted to play. And now he was getting cheered on as if he were the star of the team.

The bleachers were filled with sound as Joseph picked up the bat. “Go, Joseph, go! You can do it Joseph!” I heard one voice, just behind me, call out, “Hit that ball, Joseph!” Then the voice dropped to a near-whisper as it went on, “Your mother’s here.”

And that’s when I understood. In our small town, I suppose almost everyone had heard about my health problems. The people in the bleachers hadn’t known what to say to me, but they found a way to communicate their sympathy, encouragement, and support as they cheered for a scrawny 10-year-old, clumsily swinging his bat. They weren’t cheering for Joseph, not really. They were cheering for me. 

I don’t remember whether Joseph got a hit in that game, or what the final score was. But I can still hear the sounds of cheering and the quiet words of compassion: Joseph, your mother’s here.