“What was the score?” he asked. “3-2. It was really close,” I say, waiting.

“Well, at least they have a couple more games,” he said hopefully.

Oh. Dear. No.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry, but that was it. They lost. That means they’re done for the season.” I was about to get up and start making breakfast when I saw his chin was on his chest and he was being very quiet. “Are you sad?”

AD

There was a nod, and a silent tear running down his face. “Now I’m going to be sad all day,” he said quietly.

AD

Quick, mom. Life lesson here! Think… think….

There’s always next year, I say. Spring training is right around the corner, and there will be another chance. And hey, they did great to this point. We have strong players who will be around next year, and maybe they’ll get even closer. This is life! There’s always another chance! But. The tear.

“I guess I can root for the Giants now,” he said sullenly, noting the name of his little league team.

Yep, there’s that, too.

I started to wonder if he’d still want to be Bryce Harper for Halloween this year. He’s got all the parts of the uniform, of course, and only one thing left — the hair gel — to get. He’s been brushing his hair back after his bath every night, growing it longer, to try to look like the slugger.

AD

Last year he was Jayson Werth. Year before, he was Strasburg. His bedroom has a huge Nationals logo on the ceiling, a Gio poster above his head, a beloved Ian Desmond bobble head, a painting of baseballs his grandma did for him. He talks in hushed tones about the time he saw Wilson Ramos hit a grand slam. He swears he remembers his first game — when he was still in a Baby Bjorn on my chest.

AD

So I think about his spelling tests, one week he won’t get it, the next it’s 100 percent. There. That’s parallel. You can’t win them all, but you can keep trying.

I think about other disappointments, how we all pulled through them. He hasn’t had too many of those in his young life yet. This is a big one — one that his mother couldn’t really comprehend. But the number of men (not pushing gender roles here, that’s really how it went) who told me this week that they remember wailing for an hour after the Pirates lost 1992 NLCS, crying when their football team lost when they were little, dealing with a childhood of Red Sox curses, was a little enlightening.

AD

So this is a rite of passage, suffering through a team’s loss.

I just hoped that only my kid’s day, like he said, would be sad. That this would show him you have to keep going. I kept thinking of the team sitting in the plane, flying back to Washington. Depressing. And my kid, with his Nats paraphernalia collecting dust until next season. The games he went to this summer, each one getting more and more exciting, closer to the big one. And then this.

AD

Disappointment is a part of life and he has to learn that. And if this is the spring training for bigger life disappointments, I’ll take it. He is just going to have to be sad.

I came home from work, wondering if he was still bereft, and what I might say to him. But there he was, as usual, playing baseball with his brother and the ragtag gang from the block. It took a minute, but I noticed he was wearing a different shirt than what he wore to school.

AD

Bud, why’d you change? I asked, figuring he ripped or dropped a gallon of paint on his other shirt. Then it dawned on me: He had changed into his beloved, tattered Harper t-shirt.

“Because I’m on the Nats!” he yelled. And then he slammed a ball over the bushes, raised his arms as he ran the bases.

Lesson learned.

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