Scoreboard.

I was 5-6 years old when Ozzie Smith used to do backflips on the infield dirt. 

How could that man, nicknamed The Wizard, doing gymnastics in powder blues not be my favorite? 

Musial, Gibson, Pujols, Molina. Even considering the greats from the past, it’s always Ozzie for me. 

Ozzie is not he reason that Miller plays shortstop - that’s just where his coach put him. Yesterday he trotted out to the infield for warm-ups. He’s tossing the ball around with teammates while his sister is melting down. 

Tears. 

Screaming. 

Running. 

Throwing herself on the ground. 

We tried so hard to make it work. Megan was out of town for a much-needed break so it was me and my parents (Don the Legend and Cindy Lou) trying to wrangle my strong-willed Jude. 

We tried her favorite classic lays potato chips from the concession stand. Two bags for one dollar - that’s a nice deal Bunker R-3! We tried a distant picnic table. We tried walking around the parking lot. 

The national anthem played amid Jude’s screams and cries. 

Scoreboard.

Jude knows that most sports have a loud buzzer - usually tied to the ticking clock on the scoreboard. She hates the buzzer. It’s a trigger for her. We’re trying to help her cope and manage, but yesterday we lost. 

I finally gave up. I parked the truck as close as possible, backed into the spot next to the outfield where we could see most of the action. I rolled down the window to cheer on number 10. 

My mom joined us first, then my dad, and we watched from the truck.

I have so many thoughts about yesterday - what should have been a simple, enjoyable outing. But mostly I’m thinking about Miller - it’s his game after all. 

He obviously understands that things are different for him as a special needs sibling. He admitted he could hear Jude crying during the first part of the game. 

But I hope he also knows that even if I have to watch from the truck I’ll be there.

Even if I sing kid songs to Jude the entire time I’ll be there. 

Even when I’m praying frantically for patience because truth be told I’m seconds away from throwing myself down next to Jude and joining her. I’ll still be there.

How I show up for Miller looks different at times. It certainly did yesterday. 

But I’d drive a million curvy roads to a million small town ballparks and manage a million meltdowns . . . 

To watch my son play ball from the truck. 

Son, I’m here. We don’t look or even act like other families, but I’m here. And I won’t let the challenges your sister presents make me miss a catch, throw, pitch or at-bat. 

I didn’t yesterday. And I won’t start now. 

Play ball. 

God help me with these two very different children. Help me steward them and raise them like you want me to. Help me manage the whiplash that happens when I switch from caring for Jude to raising a teenage son. Help me - like your Word says - train them in the way they should go so when they are old they will not depart from it. Help me teach them and lead them both practically and spiritually. Amen.