Under sunny skies, we arrived at the field for L’s first baseball game of the season. As we gathered, so did the clouds and within minutes the wind descended. Certain the game would be called, I didn’t bother running to the car to get a bigger jacket. As The Challengers took the field and the fans took their seats, Mother Nature started her show. The first batter took position and despite the wind and pounding rain, he took half a dozen pitches before hitting the ball with all his might, launching it all of a few yards. Then, a smile launched across his face as he ran to base as fast as his legs would carry. As he met first, the stand erupted, not unlike an MLB game showcasing the sports’ finest. Then another batter, this one in pink and pigtails all of three feet tall. Her glasses glistened with raindrops and so did her smile. A dozen pitches in, another hit!  She was off, her pigtails flailing in tow and she reached first to the roar of the crowd. She took first like a boss, but she couldn’t hide her grin. Another batter. He was wheeled up to home plate by his mother, bundled in his wheelchair to keep warm. Mom spun him around to face the plate and he was exploding with excitement. His smile reached from East to West and captured the crowd. The pitcher threw a few, too high, but this ringer swung for the fence. Then, with his mother’s assistance, he connected bat to ball. The crowd stood to their feet as his mother ran pushing him to first, he was laughing all the way, arms in the air.

In wind and driving rain, not two, but three teams took the field today.  As one dugout completed its round and the teams took their new positions, my eyes traced across the outfield. Not the usual nine, but fifteen or more. Fathers. Mothers, Sisters, Brothers all on the same team. One proud father held his body over his son in a wheelchair to shield him from the rain, mitt-clad left hand outstretched in hopes of catching a fly. Another mother, drenched to the core, held her son in her arms as he clapped his fist into the leather, confident he would catch the work of the next heavy hitter. A dad on second, with his sight impaired daughter and clad in Everest approved rain gear, leaned in hard ready to take third. A young man on first, all of 6 feet tall, laughing and talking smack to his teammate who just giggled in jest. What I didn’t see were egos.  I didn’t see labels, or diagnoses or conditions. Not a judgment to be found. No fear, no doubt, no bad attitude anywhere in the yard. Just Challengers. Just fighters, survivors, never give up-ers. Just mountain climbing, battle winning, limitation smashing soldiers standing together in solidarity, all so the other could crack the bat and smoke the leather. And I forgot everything. I forgot I was soaked to the skin. I forgot I was shaking. I forgot I ever had a care in my whole blessed life. I was watching heroes.

As the weather reached its fiercest, my son took position behind home. He tapped the bat to the plate and my eyes welled, my face grew warm. The crowd on their feet. Three swings in, he connected and rocketed to first. He stomped that plate with a celebratory leap. Then he turned, not to the coach whom he also calls daddy, but to me, in the stands. Through tears, and ringing ears from the yells of the crowd, I could see him wave wildly and give me a thumbs up. Thumbs up, bubby, thumbs up indeed.  And to you, Challengers, thumbs up, that you have taught us all