Children are amazing creatures capable of just about anything, but the best part is that no matter how hard we try to make them grow up they always have a way of reminding us they’re kids.

I was reminded of this at my son’s baseball game the other day. It was a see–saw affair with multiple lead changes, dramatic and timely hitting, and excellent fielding. As I watched, I found it hard to believe the oldest kids on the field were born in 2002. I’m pretty sure there are a few cans of soup older than that in my pantry.

My son and his teammates took to the field having just tied the game at 5–5 in their final at bat. The home team came to the plate with a chance to win it. The tension was mounting, and our little guys were nervously chattering in the field. Of course, that was probably because it was 20 degrees, but they were excited at the prospect of extra innings never the less.

A young man from the other team approached the plate with his bat in one hand, and he appeared to be frantically adjusting his cup with the other. This was not an unusual occurrence as many of the players on both teams were wearing such a protective device in that region for the very first time – my son included. The cups probably got hit more times than the baseball; not because of bad hops in the infield, but because the boys (at least my boy) could play tunes on them between innings.

Anyway, this young man left his area alone for a bit to take one swing. He missed then went immediately back to the area, but it quickly became apparent the cup was not his primary concern. His knees came together, and he began to dance nervously back and forth as he looked for guidance and squeezed the area even harder – not to adjust anything, but to hold something in. Suddenly, hitting was the least of his concerns.

Finally, after a good deal of dancing and squirming, his coached asked, “Do you have to go to the bathroom?”

The kid nodded his head frantically in confirmation.

“Then go!” his coached yell.

He dropped the bat and sprinted to the nearest bathroom. The nail–biter of a game came to a sudden and complete halt, and the outcome was no longer as important as this kid’s bladder capacity. I am happy to report he made it back to the batter’s box with dry pants. His team also scored the winning run several batters later. My son was disappointed, but a trip to the concession stand afterwards wiped out any bad feelings.

It just goes to show we can dress our kids in college uniforms and trot them out onto a field looking like pros, but they’re still just kids. I’m pretty sure no Clemson/Carolina baseball game was ever stopped in the middle of the ninth inning because one of our little Tigers or Gamecocks had to go potty, and I know it would take more than some popcorn and a Sprite to get them to forget a close loss.