“Do
you think I’ll hit a homerun?”
He was talking about his fast-approaching first day of tee-ball, and the
question made me smile.
“Most
little boys don’t hit homeruns on their first day,” I replied, trying to dampen
his expectations without crushing his dream.
He
raised the stakes. “What if I hit the ball and it goes out of the stadium?”
I
laughed gently, “Do you think there’s going to be a stadium?”
He
nodded.
What
I wouldn’t give to swim around in his little brain, brimming with out-sized notions
of the world and an imagination not yet tainted by reality.
It
was a sweet moment.
******
It’s
been a few weeks since our homerun chat, and the sweetness has begun to wear off of tee-ball’s flavor
profile.
It
feels like tee-ball is our life. That’s a total exaggeration, but with two
games each weekend it certainly takes up more than its share of our lives currently. The
first game of the weekend is Saturdays at 6 p.m., the second Sunday at 1 p.m.,
making it physically impossible to do anything else significant on the weekend
without skipping out on his team. In my book, no sport should take up both days of the weekend unless there are college scouts in attendance.
Our little Yankee, taking a water break between innings. |
I've found myself sitting there wondering what it’s all for?
No
body’s keeping score. There’s no concept of strikes, let alone outs. And, any
semblance of positions in the field immediately collapses whenever anyone hits it
beyond the pitcher’s mound and all the infielders and most of the outfielders race
for the ball like a pack of wild dogs, climbing on top of each other in a scrum,
while the bewildered batter stands there admiring their hit until a parent yells,
“Run to first.” Then said hitter saunters off to first base – sometimes by way
of third base – and a well-meaning coach yells at the pile of fielders, “Throw
the ball to first.”
When
the ball finally gets thrown to the first baseman, who remarkably didn’t join the mob chasing
the ball, it bounces at his feet and rolls out of play. He eventually picks it
up and, upon verbal instructions, throws it home, so it can be re-teed and the next
batter can take a whack.
Don’t
get me wrong. It’s a blast watching kid after kid hit infield singles until the
whole line up has a chance to bat and the inning ends, over and over
again. But I often wonder, as our whole family sits there, why exactly we signed
up for this tee-ball adventure?
I
mean, I know why we signed up for it:
The boy asked if he could play baseball, and it seemed like the logical first
step. He’s always loved the thought of the sport, even deciding at 3-weeks-old
that “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” was the only song that would stop him from
bawling.
But
why in a grander, more metaphysical
sense. Like why does tee-ball exist at all? Other than learning which direction
to run around the bases? Are the kids really getting anything out of it?
Nobody
pitches (which is good because these kids couldn’t throw a strike to save their
lives). Nobody catches (a fact I was delighted to realize after a preseason
panic attack when I worried my son was the only 5-year-old in America who
couldn’t catch … he’s not). Strikes and balls and outs will be introduced later
(In fact, even if infielders are lucky enough to gather the ball and get it to
first before the runner, the runner stays on base). And they only play 2 to 3
innings (which somehow still feels like 9 innings). When it ends, everyone decides to
go for ice cream, which is what they really wanted to do in the first place.
Couldn’t
we just distribute a packet of rules and diagrams to the parents and agree to
meet back in a few years, once the whole hand-eye coordination thing starts to
take hold?
Do we do it just for the pictures? Cause, I’ll admit, they do look pretty darn cute dressed
up like real life baseball players. I learned this when they scheduled the team
pictures for the second week of the season. And we’re not talking about soccer
team pictures where everyone just gathers in front of the goal after a game –
usually toward the end of the season. No, this is the real deal of team
pictures, with forms to fill out saying how many of different sized photos you
want in your expensive photo package. And don’t forget the baseball card style
wallet-sized ones.
I’m
sorry, but having played only one game in his career before picture day, what exactly should the back of this rookie card say? He’s
batting 1000, but still learning to catch?
I
also learned something else at team picture day: that a full plastic bottle of water can work
as an emergency eye wash. All you have to do is have the patient look into the
bottle, then give it a quick and vigorous squeeze. It totally works, trust me.
An
explanation seems in order.
Brief aside:
We arrived at team picture day to find all the other players in the league waiting in a long line that snaked out the door of the village recreation building. Our whole team wasn’t there yet. So, we had some time to kill. My child decided to spend this time climbing a small flowing tree with two other kids from his team.
We arrived at team picture day to find all the other players in the league waiting in a long line that snaked out the door of the village recreation building. Our whole team wasn’t there yet. So, we had some time to kill. My child decided to spend this time climbing a small flowing tree with two other kids from his team.
Then,
something went in his eye, and he started crying. No. Screaming. Like blood
curdling, “MY EYE! MY EYE! THERE”S SOMETHING IN MY EYE!” type stuff. It
unraveled everyone in the line in an instant. I took him to the bathroom,
trying to flush out the eye with my hand and the faucet water. I laid him down
on a table, then on the sidewalk, then on the ground, all the while trying to
examine the eye and pour a paper cup of water in it. I couldn’t get him to stop
screaming. This was snot-bubbling and whaling-arms-when-he-wasn’t-restrained
type screaming.
An
eye doctor happened to be there with her tee-baller and came over to consult
and console. She couldn’t see anything in the eye, and said was likely scratched.
I, however, could tell by his fluctuating screams that whatever was there was still
there. I’m not a doctor, just a parent.
So,
I devised a plan. (They say necessity is the mother of invention). I remembered
I had some plastic water bottles in the car. They were warm, unopened, and just
a parking lot away. I ran like Usain Bolt while my boy’s big sister kept him
still on the ground for me. Once back with a water bottle, I had him look into
it, which took some convincing. Then I quick squeezed it, rushing water into
his eye and all over his face and clothes. At first he screamed louder,
slightly shocked by my move. Then, within five seconds, he magically said, “It
feels better.”
Whatever
it was, it was out.
Time
had passed during the eye episode and, as it turned out, his team was just
lining up for their official photo in the makeshift studio with the
professional photographer’s lights. We rushed him in and he took his place. He’s
the one in the photo with the drenched jersey and the look like he just
finished a 20-minute scream.
Needless
to say, we didn’t order the wallet-sized ones.
Aside over.
The
photo was just one of the less-than-sweet episodes in our young season that has now included
a game played in 42 degree rain (the local minor league baseball team cancelled
their game that day, but we played on), a game in 90+ degree sun, and a few more Saturday
evenings and Sunday afternoons in between.
I love watching my kid "bat," for sure, but when
did tee-ball get so bad?
I
remember playing the sport when I was a kid, and loving the cheering crowd, and
the thrill of being at bat. Come to think of it, I really remember the feeling
of making it to home base … usually after a series of infield singles by me and
my teammates.
Oh.
Hmm.
It’s
starting to make sense again.
****
Now there’s an update to this one tee-ball story.
This past weekend our
boy hit a home run. Actually, he hit two in the same game. And not just any
home runs, but grand slams. (Full
disclosure: the last batter at bat every inning gets to circle the bases, with
all the other runners on base also getting to go home – most even run the right
direction. They call it a home run. And so do we).
He got
picked to bat last in the game, hitting the ball both times roughly near the pitchers mound, and then circling the bases all the way home.
When
it was over, I congratulated him, “You hit a home run, buddy,”
“No,”
he replied. “I hit two.”
I
smiled deeply.
Tee-ball
is such a sweet sport.
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