In 25 days, our son (aka ‘Hijo’ on occasion) will graduate from law school. Since he started this educational trek, I have considered what might be an appropriate gift to give him to honor this event….not that I need to or have to give him anything other than a pat on the back and a “way to go, Son” – I simply want to. Maybe it is because he doesn’t expect anything that thrills me to give him something special, in my eyes.
So, I put on my thinking cap a few months ago and came up with this idea…a hope chest. Yes, a hope chest -- for a guy for a graduation gift, you might wonder? Yes, indeed, a hope chest it will be…never mind, that's what some people get when they get married and never mind that Hijo’s dad thinks “it’s a bit of a stretch”…
A few years ago, I met ‘Samuel,’ an Amish man who owns and operates a beautiful furniture store in the rural Midwest. I like Samuel, a lot, and I have gotten to know of his wife and children. Samuel doesn’t have a phone, so I can’t call, and no computer, so I can’t e-mail or DM him on Twitter, and he for sure, doesn’t have a profile on Linked In, much less Facebook. I simply drive to Samuel’s place of business (he has a horse) and if he’s there, I speak with him, in person. If not, I wait until next time.
In February of this year, I took Hijo and his girlfriend with me to Samuel’s place of business – thought it might be a good idea to have ‘his and her’ input on this special gift that will last a lifetime. My son, alone, made ‘the pick’ and now we eagerly await the hope chest’s arrival, just in time for his graduation.
Since ordering the hope chest, I have been thinking about what to put in it and I’ve come up with this, so far…if you have some additional ideas, I'd welcome them.
- A bust of Mozart, from his late paternal grandmother, a gifted pianist, along with a book of “Minute Sketches of Great Composers” by Eva B. Hansl and Helen L. Kaufmann, copyright 1932.
- A quilt, also made by his paternal grandmother…Chicago Cubs’ colors.
- A “Commercial Law” textbook by P.B.S. Peters and Dwight A. Pomeroy, copyright 1932, belonging to my father who always wanted to be a lawyer. My dad’s carefully handwritten notes etch the sides of a few of the worn pages. Were he still living, I know he would be beaming the day his grandson walks across the stage to receive his law degree.
- Handmade doilies and crocheted kitchen towels from his maternal grandmother.
- Two bags of peanuts with the Chicago Cubs' logo on them (I would buy a couple of Cubs’ tickets, but, hey, I still have a balance due on the hope chest). J
- A copy of my newest book, Happy About the Career Alphabet, An A-Z Primer for Job Seekers of All Age – he is looking for a job and besides that, he proofed the Ps, Qs and Rs.
- A congratulatory card written in Spanish…even though I do not speak or write the language, my neighbor does, so hopefully, he can help.
- A copy of "The Lesson", the personal essay he wrote that won him a university's Presidential Scholarship as he commenced his college career seven 'short' years ago. I will post it here below if you would like to read it. It is a good reminder to our son of what really matters and what’s important as he launches the next chapter of his life.
And finally, in the hope chest, I will put lots of love, best wishes, and yes, you guessed it, hope! As our son said the other day…"a hope chest full of hope…yeah, that would be real good, Madre.”
THE LESSON
It was Austin's turn to bat. He was three for three on this day. He slowly approached the batter's box, then with a passion seen in only a few hitters, aggressively dug his back heel into the ground. This was his routine. His body gently swayed back and forth, overflowing with a quiet confidence. When he was finally ready, he stared down the little white pill whizzing toward him, and swung with every ounce of force he could muster from his diminutive body. It was by far his best hit of the season, yet it didn't make it past the third baseman. It made no difference to Austin where the ball was hit; he tore out of the batter's box and sprinted toward first base with the fury of a fox being chased. The disfigured legs of the little boy made it difficult for him to run from base to base without falling down on his way to each one, yet he rebounded back onto his feet faster than any ballplayer I have ever seen.
It was the summer before my senior year, and I was 'umpiring' the Challenger Little league baseball game. The league was designed to give children with disabilities, some more severe than others, the chance to experience what I consider to be the greatest game on earth -- baseball. For nine consecutive Sundays, the boys and girls would gather at the Little League Park, and with the help and encouragement of their peers and relatives, would scurry around the bases for an hour, sharing the same enjoyment in the game of baseball that so many had shared before them.
Austin was one of the best players on the field. He played with a determination and divine passion paralleled by few other baseball players at any level. Austin charged the bases like a bull would a red sheet, always convinced that one of the other boys or girls was going to make a play and tag him out. Not one assist or put out was recorded the entire summer.
When the league ended, the parents, coaches, and other league supporters thanked me for my help. I smiled and gave the same short reply to everyone, "Not a problem." "Anytime." What everyone failed to see, including myself, was how much I had learned from the little boys during those short, memorable nine weeks. It wasn't an overwhelming epiphany, but a knowledge that slowly developed in me as I was playing the game that was so dear to me. Every time I entered the batter's box, and dug in my back heel for balance, I imagined the passion with which Austin and all the other children played the game. When I played, I tried to imitate them, much in the same way they tried to imitate me when they were playing baseball.
Later that summer when my high school team was playing in the sub-state finals, Austin came to watch me play. I noticed him before the game and we talked. He gave me some sound advice, "Hit a homer." I was hitless that game with two strikeouts. While I was frustrated with my performance, I realized that Austin and all the other kids in the Challenger League would give anything to be in my shoes.
For 12 years, I have been playing the highly competitive sport of baseball. For 12 years, I have relentlessly pursued, practiced and perfected the game that brings out the best -- and worst -- in me. What I came to realize this summer is how little I had learned -- up until then. Through the wisdom and teachings of a land rocket named Austin, a differently-abled 10 year old baseball fanatic, I discovered some important lessons about how I want to live my life:
Face whatever comes at you head on -- with your back heel dug in a little;
when you fall down, get up faster than you fell;
whatever you're going after, don't let anyting blow you off the path,
and always try to "hit a homer."
Austin did.
