That's Your Boy

A couple of weekends ago, mrsBlood and I rented the movie Invincible for our Saturday viewing pleasure. You may recall its premise - the longshot story of a walk-on football-playing bartender who manages to make the Opening Day roster of the Philadelphia Eagles. He makes the Special Teams unit, covering kickoffs and punt returns for the Dick Vermeil-led team, a franchise really down on its luck at the time.

After a miserable first game against the Dallas Cowboys, Wahlberg's character Vince Papale redeems himself in the home opener against the Giants. In a close game, he forces a fumble on a punt return and takes the ball all the way into the endzone for the winning score. The bar where he used to work is going crazy and the bar owner (Grama from Rounders) leans into the area where Papale's father is sitting and says to him, "That's your boy." I'd be lying if I said I didn't well up a little at that scene.

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Last Saturday at the Gaelic game, I made a crying call when my pocket Aces tripped up on the river. The Ace managed to give the other guy broadway, but I couldn't find a fold. I lost a big pot and found myself in the hole for $400. I stayed there the rest of the night, playing break-even (bad) poker for the next 4 1/2 hours.

Under normal circumstances, such a performance would bring me down, dampen my spirits, and make me a walking pile of gloom and misery the next day. But it didn't.

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Earlier that day I watched my son play his first coach's pitch baseball game of the season. He's a Diamondback this year - far better than the Yankee he was last year - to this Sox fan anyway. He's number 27, and yesterday found himself playing second base (his old man's position) and batting fifth.

During his second at bat, miniBlood lined a sharp grounder just inside the first base line. The ball got by the first baseman and kept rolling. It got by the right fielder and kept rolling still. By the time mini crossed home plate, the ball hadn't made its way back to the infield yet. Homerun. The home team fans were cheering him on and I just watched. Beeming with pride. He'd finish the game going 5-for-5.

In the third inning, an opposing team player hit a soft fly towards my son at second base. In a most improbable event for a 7-year old, mini came forward a few steps, dove and snared the ball for the out. Nobody was more shocked than I, as he still has some trouble holding on to the ball with his glove.

Again, I won't lie here. I had to ever so slightly compose myself when the coach of the team came up to me and said the exact same words after my son's great catch.

"That's your boy."