Kids have always liked my 11-year-old son, Matthew. Even so, he's never had the kind of close friendships his social brother, 13-year-old Jacob, has had. Until this past year, Matthew stood on the sidelines, wistfully watching other children play and have sleepovers. Although he knew how to be respectful and kind, he couldn't figure out how to translate that knowledge into being the more rough-and-tumble kid he longed to be, the kind who had friends over and rode bikes and played ball. In the summers, the pattern held. At day camp, the kids liked him, but he kept to himself, quiet and shy.
Perhaps his hesitancy started when his best nursery school buddy dismissed the birthday present Matthew gave him--in front of a dozen other little boys. Or when Jacob and his best friend began excluding Matthew from their games. Or as he began to grow taller and plumper than the other boys in his class. Perhaps those events grew into a whisper in Matthew's ear: You're not like these other fellows. Don't even try.
His father and I, duped perhaps by the ease with which Jacob collected friends and the similar experience we had had, assumed Matthew's social life would follow the same pattern. But as we watched Jacob head off to a friend's house almost every Saturday morning, we also saw Matthew's loneliness grow. Left at home, he'd toss a ball to himself or read, or stroke his cat. He'd watch his favorite videos over and over. Pretty soon his sadness was palpable. It showed in the way he watched groups of other kids play. The way he put himself on a diet without telling us. The way the unexplained tears came.
Something had to change. But neither we nor Matthew knew where to begin. Then one day, by chance, his father took him to see a major league baseball game. The outing to Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh would prove to be a turning point: It was the day Matthew realized how much he wanted to be a player--and discovered the game that just might let him be one.
Over the years, Dan and I had asked both our boys if they had any interest in playing organized sports. Neither seemed interested, and we never forced the issue. Even after the day at the ball park, Matthew never told us how he longed to play. Instead, his signs of distress turned more serious. He began to eat less and less, to the point where we eventually took him to a doctor specializing in eating disorders. After several sessions, she called Dan and me in. This isn't about eating, she said. This is about a boy who wants desperately to belong. He wants to play baseball. And he is terrified about being rejected.
Why, we asked Matthew, had he not told us he wanted to play baseball? "I thought you knew," he said, words that still surprise me. I thought you knew. Now we did. And so we set out together to find him a team, one where the kids hadn't all been playing since they were in diapers. (One coach, in all seriousness, told us that it's a bit late to start playing baseball at age 10.) Once we got Matt on the field, the transformation was remarkable. It didn't happen overnight, of course. But with time, the three-times-a-week practices, the urging of the coaches to "talk it up" (as in "Attaboy, Matt"), the slaps on the back after a base hit all began to weave a new self-portrait for Matthew. None of these boys from other schools had known the formerly plump, awkward kid. Now thin and newly athletic, Matthew could think differently about who he might be. He could reinvent himself. "I made two runs and caught a fly," he said one night, gulping Gatorade after a game. And then without transition: "And I wish I could go to my friend's school. We're buddies."
Matthew still doesn't have kids over to play. And he may always have a quiet, reserved style. But that's OK. Making friends, as we've all discovered, is more a matter of practice and opportunity. Sort of like slugging a ball or stealing a base.
At a game the other day, Matthew and his new buddy stood shoulder to shoulder, peeking through the cage into the stands. "Let's play catch," Matthew said. Dressed like identical twins in gray jerseys and orange caps, they moved to the outfield. "Hustle, hustle, hustle," they shouted back and forth. Their legs churned like locomotive wheels pulling out of the station. And when Matthew walked back to the batting cages, he wasn't walking alone.
Dorothy Foltz-Gray is a contributing editor at FAMILYFUN.
