T1 Day1, pencil and charcoal

Just as great authors have their morning pages, I’m trying a new routine of drawing exercises before or after I paint each morning to gain a better command of the fundamentals — my homemade art school as it were.  These are very well-laid plans – the best-laid plans, so I’m not taking any odds on what will happen to them.  But the first day was fun.

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Yesterday, we went to the ballet recital of a young friend. The younger sister of T1’s girlfriend, we’ve come to think of both girls as practically family and were excited to cheer her efforts.

It was blissfully typical of most dance recitals.

We watched the older girls, getting ready to soar into the next phase of their lives, enjoy well-deserved accolades after years of practice. Then we watched younger dancers emerging like butterflies. Our friend distinguished herself beautifully, hitting her marks and helping the youngest dancers hit theirs.

As usual, those youngest dancers, with their fairy costumes and exhuberance, stole the show.

One little fairy in particular  captured everyone’s attention. About four, she sashayed onto the stage as gracefully as a four-year-old can, glancing back at her group for confirmation that the steps were right. Glee infected her as they began twirling, causing us to wonder if she would twirl right off the stage. She was often just a beat behind the others but always a bounce or twirl above, dancing to the music as if she had her own rhythm section in her head.

The music ended, and her partners sashayed off to the left. She began to skip and hop after them, and for a moment she seemed to be trying to fly. The audience chuckled as one and then applauded, as if we were all remembering what it was like to move just for the fun of it and hoping that the little magic spark that lit up the tiny ballerina might actually get her to fly someday.

Arlington had barely enough interested nine-year-olds to field a team for the Little League minor’s team this year, so when one of the players couldn’t make it to the first away game, parents and players were relieved that an older player from the Majors  volunteered to play.

I was happy the boys got to play, but the older boy’s good deed bumped T2 from his position behind the plate as catcher. Knowing how much he loves catching, my relief was tempered a bit. However, I knew it made sense for the older boy to catch because, even in the minors, winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.

If the change bothered T2, he didn’t show it. He danced on his way out to center field, bopping to the beat of the internal music in his head as he waited for the ball to leave the pitcher’s hand.  In the second and third and fourth inning he danced as he play right field, then center, then right again. He skipped around the bases as he scored a run, sliding into each base for good measure, even when the ball was still in the outfield.

All of the Arlington boys got dirty sliding. The scoreboard was broken, but as our rag-tag team scored one run after another, victory seemed likely.They had faced much older boys for the first two losing games of the season, a win would mean a lot to all of them.

The game ended just after dinner time and shortly before bedtime. Fully revved up, the team began a complex game of skill and strategy that involved racing up and down the bleachers and throwing their gloves at each other. A few dads were talking cars. Moms were talking carpools. The boys were screaming with laughter, making up rules as they played. It was well past official bedtime by the time each boy was buckled in and being chauffeured home.

T2 was sweaty and panting when I asked him if they had won.

“Yeah,” he laughed.

“What was the score?”

“Oh, we weren’t keeping score.  We were just having fun.”

“And the ballgame?”

“I can’t remember the score,” he said after a minute. Then he grinned and pointed to his dirty pants. “But I got to slide three times.  I think that’s a win.”

It was, and it really was everything.