November 7, 2017

Baseball: It Happened to Me

November 7, 2017
When my son said he wanted to play baseball my stomach sunk and my knuckles turned white.  Seriously?  Sure, let's add one more extra curricular activity to our killer schedule.  No problem.  Sign us up!  Thank you Lord that you gave me a daughter that does not like dance.  You spared me there, no doubt.  So soccer, basketball, football and baseball.  Easy peasy.  

I've NEVER liked sports.  Ever.  The only sport I played was basketball.  Once.  The only point I made was via a granny shot.  Humiliating.  So when we added baseball to the roster I was less than thrilled.  The only thing I knew about baseball was it involved Cracker Jacks.  But as with everything else, I bucked up and committed to letting Henry play ONE season and prayed fiercely that he'd hate it.  

He loved it.  My first experience as a mom in the stands was so intimidating.  I was terrified.  My first memory is of this darling Baseball Mom shouting, "Get-cha a piece of it Jonny".  Get-cha a piece of it?  Huh?  Whoa.  This was real.  I quickly started Googling baseball lingo and slang.  I already stuck out like an old bat.  I didn't order a team shirt or hat and my street clothes screamed ametour.  Before I knew it, every parent in the stands started to shout at my son to SCOOT UP!  I was completely clueless and wanted to fit in so I shouted at him too.  And he immediately scooted up and hit it out of the park.  Not really but it felt like it.  All of this sudden, I loved baseball too.  

Two seasons later I was hooked.  I loved the kids and their families and I hadn't even had a single Cracker Jack.  But don't think for a second that I haven't participated in my fair share of macheese nachos.  "Ma-cheese".  Cheese from a machine.  Oh so terribly good.  If it's not a kid shaving years off my life, it's the food I eat.  Anyway,  I was becoming a baseball mom.  OMG!  But I still hadn't managed to courage to shout "Get-cha a piece of it".  I'm still ammeter level.  But I know a foul ball and how many times the pitcher can pitch.  I'm getting there.  

What I didn't know was how hot and bothered coaches can get.  I've seen parents come out their own shoes in rage at a poor skinny acne faced ref in soccer.  I've seen wives send their husbands to the car before being told to leave the field by an official.  Heck, I've seen parents get ejected from games.  But of all the balls out there, I've never seen a coach get his boxers in a wad at an 8 year old baseball game.  Quite a scene I tell you.  Poor umpire.  It can get ugly out there at second base.  Especially after everyone has left and it's just the coach and the ref. 

Baseball has happened to me.  I'll get fired up.  I'll jump up and down, clap and cheer.  I'll grab the knee of another mom when my son is up to bat.  I'll pick the shellac off my nails until they are destroyed beyond repair . But if you see me get hot and bothered drag me off to the concession stand for nachos with extra macheese and perhaps hand me a spiked drink.  Whaaaaat?  There's drinking in baseball? Trust me.  There is, Virginia. 

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