An Autism Dad Reflects on Fatherhood, Autism, and the Great American Pastime

Next in a remarkable series of guest blogs by autism Dads is "Strike Three," by Mark Osteen.  Like the dads who have submitted earlier essays, Mark's is a very personal, very intense exploration of what it means to be the father of a son with autism.  Still interested in submitting your Father's Day essay?  You have just one more day!  Look for the Father's Day Blog Roundup on Sunday.

My name is Mark Osteen, and I'm the father of a young man (now 21 years old) with autism. I'd like to submit the attached piece, about 980 words long, for the Father's Day guest blogs you're seeking. It directly addresses father and son relationships, particularly through baseball, and as such might appeal to lots of dads (and sons) out there.   I'm also the author of a memoir, ONE OF US: A FAMILY'S LIFE WITH AUTISM, published late last fall by Univ. of Missouri Press.

Strike Three

A boy's room is a snapshot of his life and loves; the picture changes as he grows and gains new interests. And so my baseball cards and battered glove gave way to a stereo, Beatles posters and orange paisley wall hangings.

My son Cameron's room also reveals his autistic nature.

It is, first of all, filled with toys. A Fisher-Price basketball hoop and backboard lean against the closet. A silver portable Sony CD player sits on the white nightstand; inside, CDs are piled helter-skelter, mixed with a heap of mutilated toddler books-Good Night Moon, The Runaway Bunny.

Assorted children's videos-Raffi in Concert, Disney singalongs, numerous Kidsongs tapes-spill over the top of a blue plastic trash basket. Beneath the window, a hulking trunk is packed with colorful toys: three guitars, a "Magic Lights" keyboard, a new-looking baseball glove and wiffle ball, two kid-sized basketballs, a Pinpressions novelty. There are no other books, no video games, craft supplies or soiled jerseys.

Perhaps the room's most striking feature, though, are its stark white walls, which bear no garish hangings, no posters of pop stars or athletes. They bespeak a bare imagination, telling of a boy who doesn't have heroes because he doesn't imagine being anyone else.

This is the room of a boy who doesn't play.

Or rather, he plays atypically. I recall that my wife Leslie and I watched with delight, as Cam, then aged five, mastered a toy cash register, amusement park, and Fisher-Price car garage. But his mastery lacked creativity: he never pretended to hand out change or made those growly engine noises most boys produce. His play remained as mechanical as the toys. He rarely used the skills outside of our teaching sessions, and novelty prompted resistance or hostility.

As I scan the toys, it's hard not to see them as a monument to dashed hopes. But perhaps they are better viewed as a material record of my relationship with my son. Here's one example.

I grew up in a kid-filled neighborhood with two vacant lots that served as ball fields. When our gang wasn't playing baseball, I conducted imaginary games in our backyard. For hours on end I'd hit fungoes, or sling the ball against the shed while pretending to be a major-leaguer. I idolized ballplayers and collected baseball cards, which I pored over, categorized, and filed daily. I knew every player's stats, and wowed adults with this arcane knowledge.

When my autistic son Cameron was five I bought him a wiffle tee-ball set up.

"Okay, Cambo, let's hit the ball. Like this."

I put his hands on the bat, pulled back the bat and helped him take a healthy hack.

"Now you do it."

He dropped the bat and ran away. I coaxed him to try again, this time keeping my hands on his as we walloped the wiffle ball.

"What a hit! Now run!" He had no trouble with that part, generally dashing into the neighbors' woods.

You run back to where you started, and then begin again. So why run? The notion of competing and winning was either beyond him--perhaps because it demanded that he imagine somebody else's thoughts--or seemed silly. Besides, he had his own rules: outside is for swinging or stripping bushes. Everything else is wrong.

I desperately wanted Cam to succeed at this, so every summer we worked on hitting. He learned to hit a pitched wiffle ball pretty well for an autistic kid, but he didn't want to hit the ball. I persisted, and when he was nine enrolled him in a league for disabled kids.

At the first practice we waited for the coaches to get organized, which allowed ample time for Cam to move from first base (reluctant cooperation) to second base--wandering away, sitting down, plucking grass.

I steered him toward the line forming near the batter's box.

"Huh-uh-huh-uh-huh-uh." He twisted his t-shirt in his fist and chewed on it, meanwhile gouging my knuckles with his nails.

My wife questioned me with her eyes: is this worth it? I ignored her, then watched the other kids-boys with Down syndrome, kids with CP--whiff or feebly tap the ball. My boy could do better than that! But by the time Cam's turn at the plate arrived, he'd already reached third base: angry defiance. Slumping to his knees in the muddy batter's box, he slapped the ground, growled, and refused to get up.

Red-faced, I implored, "Come on, buddy, I know you can do it. Don't you want to hit the ball?"

"This is not working," said my wife.

"Let's just try it one more time."

"Mark. Think. This is ridiculous. Somebody's going to get hurt."

I stood, arms akimbo, a petulant ten-year-old whose mother has called him home

from a game. Cam grabbed my t-shirt, ripped it, then sprang up and loped toward the car. Glaring at his back, I trudged in his wake. My kid had made a scene again. He couldn't even hold his own among other disabled kids!

My son sensed my intense desire for him to succeed, which burdened the game with expectations he couldn't (or didn't want to) meet. From then on, he went on a sitdown strike or fled as soon as I picked up the bat. I kept trying until one day, as I was chasing him around the yard holding the bat, I suddenly saw myself as one of those sports-crazed dads hounding his son to live out unfulfilled aspirations. I could almost hear myself shout, "Have fun, damn it!"

The struggle to teach my son to play ball was a prism refracting my own childhood-of days devising solitary games with private rules, conjuring a second, shadow self who called play-by-play and drove me to excel. When Cam came along, I tried to make him my shadow. Only when I turned down the spotlight of my hopes and dreams did I glimpse the boy my shadow hid.