My son starts Grade 7 this week. Our summer of baseball helped me see him as his own person

At the baseball diamond, kids sit on the bench like crows in a line, legs dangling in the way that only a kid's can dangle, watching the last game of the day, as the players' younger siblings turn cartwheels in the green gleam of the outer outfield. There's something inherently touching about baseball: the long socks and traditions, the way the coaches wear uniforms, too. The tournament is being played in small-town Ontario amid rolling hills, farmlands and Baltimore John's, a bar with kind-eyed, ponytailed waitresses and a ragged sign, written in the hand of a child, offering a reward for a missing schnauzer named Tony. This has been the summer of baseball. Since May, when my son, Charlie, made the Under-13 Select team, he's played three games a week, plus practices and tournaments. At 11, he's the youngest, smallest kid in the group. When the season started, he'd smile shyly in the dugout as the boys gave each other nicknames, hoping for one of his own. He's still young enough that emotions pass across his face like clouds. He's tough, though. Each game, he plays hard, throwing his body in front of the ball, putting his head down as he runs the bases in his distinctive red cleats, kicking up dust behind him. Once, a grandma asked her friend in the neighbouring lawn chair: 'Who's that little cutie with the red shoes?' On non-game days, he practices pitching with his dad in the backyard. The instruction from the catcher position at home plate: 'Stretch it out, Charlie.' A businesslike nod. Then the timeless thwack of a ball hitting a glove. 'That's a strike every time.' Charlie and his red shoes at the diamond. Years ago, when Charlie was a toddler, I clipped the ending of a W. S. Merwin poem and put it on the fridge: 'This morning the black shepherd dog/ still young looking up and saying/ Are you ready this time.' I liked the heart twist it gave me, the urging to forgo distraction and take it all in, this frail, moving moment, the early mornings and cold coffee, the cloudless face in the stroller at the construction site watching the excavators, slow and powerful as dinosaurs. When we moved to Port Hope five years ago, I packed that poem away. Sometimes trying and failing to hold the whole world in your hands is too much before breakfast. Lately, I don't need a poem to remind me to pay attention. Charlie starts Grade 7 this week and the summer feels swollen with remembering, packing in memories of late childhood. Blue raspberry Popsicle tongues, the particular sound of a house in the late afternoon when everyone is reading, his hand on our sun-warmed tabby's head. The lullabies he still allows when he's sad or sick. Rock, paper, scissors, repeat. Close your eyes against the sun and watch the colour slats inside your eyelids change from red to blue to green. I have to stop thinking of this as the last summer. The change has started. Last month at the pool, Charlie instructed me not to call him 'bunny' or 'honey' or any other affectionate nickname in front of other people, ever. He would answer only to his name. 'Or 'kid,'' he added seriously, as we waited in line for the big slide. Some part of me has been preparing for this since he was a swaddled bundle sleeping on top of me and we spent most of our time turning a light switch on and off. The future echo of grief shimmering on the horizon, the inevitable reaper skulking amid the lacy sea spray. 'That's how it's supposed to go,' well-meaning people from across the other side will tell you. 'Kids grow up.' The natural order of things. Sure. Makes sense. But the feel of his small hot hand in mine. His nose is my nose. His voice, still young, calling 'Mom?' when he comes home. I'm not ready. Who ever is? The baseball season continued. The team was unbeaten, giddy with success. After one particularly hard-fought game, the leader, a kind boy with three nicknames, including the indelible 'Shoresy,' suggested all the players go see 'Toy Story 5' at the late-run theatre. That afternoon, the boys got dropped off at the mall, one by one, with wet hair and clean shorts. They loaded up on snacks at Dollarama, bottles of pop smuggled into their sweatshirts. At a certain point, I realized I was the only parent staying for the movie. Gently, the boys tolerated me. I sat a few rows ahead, half-watching the screen while they giggled and threw popcorn at each other. Normally, I'd have marched them right out to the lobby. Normally, I'd have called their parents. Instead, I sat in the dark, and listened for Charlie's familiar laugh. Their fun wouldn't always be so innocent. 'Charlie D' and teammate on the bench. The next day was afternoon practice. It was still summer, but the warm days were getting shorter. Geese, unfazed by the action below, flew in wide arcs over the field. Soon, the changing season would tell them it was time to move on, but for now, they were here. The boys ran drills, then set up a game to practice hitting and fielding. The timeless thwack of the ball in the glove. One ball was hit particularly hard, a guaranteed triple. Charlie, playing second base, jumped and grabbed it right out of the air. The boys whooped as one. 'Look, Charlie D,' said Shoresy, pointing up to the darkening sky where the geese lazily flapped their wings up and down. 'They're clapping for you.' The Star's Fresh Air Fund provides grants to summer camps to help remove financial barriers, so financially vulnerable children can participate in fun, sporty, outdoor programs — like baseball — and create lifelong memories and friendships.