Connor's World Series Moment....Defining Winning

It’s the final game of the West Linn baseball season on a windy, overcast May day.  A loud eruption of clapping and elated cheering disrupts the focus from my 12-year-old son’s game to the baseball game on the next field.  I crank my neck around to see a tall young man in a red jersey wearing #17 on the pitcher’s mound saying "Yes!" with two pumped fists to the heavens.  His teammates swarm him as if their team won the championship. 

My eyes glance at the scoreboard. 
1 out.  
I figure out the excitement when a parent exclaims, “Connor just struck him out!!” 

The ovation for Connor’s strike out is far louder than for any home run all season, I quickly surmise.

“You’ve got to see this,” a high school boy standing next to me says to another with giddy delight.  “And he better get here so he can see Connor pitch.” 

I’m not sure who the “he” is that this boy is referring to, but I know this is a special moment and won’t quickly be forgotten. 
Not for the spectators of this game. 
Not for his family with the camera pointing at the scene. 
Not for Connor. 
Not for Connor’s coaches and teammates. 
Not for me.
You see, Connor is autistic.  For those who know him he is kind, gentle, courageous and always smiling.  He smiled at my one-year-old pig-tailed daughter earlier in the season, she reached out her pudgy hand to him and smiled back. 

Two years ago we were new to this community and met many families at the ballpark.  One of the things I noticed is that the last three baseball seasons Connor is on the same coach’s team, Coach Kadel, in his red uniform (and come to find out...he's coached him seven of the eight seasons Connor's played in the league).  From my vantage of the coach to the player, there is only ever encouragement and corrective teaching, believing in him.  In a highly competitive sport and city where banners hang from the outfield asserting national championships, it’s refreshing to see a reminder that the bigger picture of life is more important than the final score, and I realize I need to check my own competitive spirit with my heart and my head.  What is winning?  Is it the final score from one game, or the trophy at the end of the season?  Or is it teaching the next generation what it looks like to take care of each other, to respect authority, to love deeply, to understand what teamwork looks like, and to recognize that the opportunity to simply play is often the biggest privilege (do our kids really understand this?!)?  Connor gets it.  Don't get me wrong: I like to win.  But I'm reminded by the scene in front of me that what lasts is not the trophy that will get dusty on the shelf but who we are to a world that so desperately needs what this tick on time's clock is teaching. Somewhere lost

in the jumble and desire of wanting to give our kids the best we can lose the importance of character development and looking within ourselves at the scoreboard that truly matters.

I can’t imagine the inexplicable joy that filled Connor’s soul (and Coach Kadel's soul) when the coach grabbed the game ball, put it in his hand, and sent him to the mound.  
The coach believes in the player.   
The player trusts the coach.

And now here Connor is.

With every strike, the crowd erupts.  The inning finishes as Connor pitches superbly, and his teammates and some from the opposing team come to give him a high five as he trots off the field with a bigger smile than the Cheshire Cat. 

This was his World-Series-Game-7-Bottom-of-the-9th-Major-League-Moment.  

His coach puts his arm around Connor, and I imagine the words exchanged went something like this: “I’m so proud of you.  You did awesome.  I knew you could do it.”

And I do hope that “he” witnessed Connor’s moment.  I wish the world could have seen it. True winning.  If you don't agree, I dare you to ask any of Connor's coaches, teammates or the opposing team what they will remember from today.  I dare you.  My guess is 100% would say, "Connor!"  And, thank you, Connor, for teaching all of our hearts today.  

*Thanks to Connor Tiffany's family for letting me share this story.  They have an amazing foundation, The Tiffany Autism Foundation, that helps local and national autism organizations dedicated to education, awareness and research.