|Look at us. We burn! We wilt!|
I got the information for my son's 9 year old Minor league this week. Let's just say things have stepped up a bit since last year. DS9 has been a big baseball fan, which is sort of strange since he never, ever watches any sports on TV. I think it has to do with two things: rules and winning. Ok, and maybe snacks.
In the winter, DS plays basketball on a league at the YMCA. His teams invariably do terribly. I can't recall a winning season for one of his teams EVER and the poor child has never, not once, not even with us carrying him on our shoulders, made a single basket. And then there are the rules. Basketball has a lot of rules. At least, it seems that way when you're 9. Rules for dribbling, passing, blocking, shooting, and whatever else goes on in those games (I'm reading a book thank you).The best part about basketball as a parent: it only lasts one hour!
Baseball seems a lot simpler and easier to my kid. You sit a lot. A lot. People give you snacks. You get to hit bats on a fence. And every once in a while you stand up, hit a ball, run fast, and get to go back and have a snack. Your parents sit and watch you sitting for 5 hours. What's not to love?
|Is it snack time yet?|
It doesn't hurt that every year, DS's team had a ringer--you know, that kid who's dad never quite played pro ball but wants his son to carry on the dream. The kid who through good genes or good pharmaceuticals (hey, no drug tests yet) can hit the ball into the parking lot every time at bat (time at bat--listen to me, like I'm a sports writer) or can actually throw a ball to a person on base (DS can't do that so I find it amazing). Every season, his team won, and they all got cool trophies.
Anyhoo, this season the kids are considered "minors." (Last year they were "Tyros" and I have yet to know what the heck a Tyro is....) DS had to tryout for a place on a team. Since there are no cuts, the purpose of the tryouts is to simply spread out all the wunderkinds with the over-eager daddies across the teams to make them more even.
So this week I got a letter from the new coach. I know him. His kid was in my scout den a few years ago, and he's a nice guy. I asked innocently what color socks the team was going to wear, and in the next letter to the parents I'd been selected as the team mom.
WTH? TEAM MOM? I actually have a friggin' job assignment: team statistics and batting lining up. Unless team statistics means assigning snack duties, you've got the wrong person, buddy. Unlike DS, I don't actually enjoy baking in the sun of an uncovered dugout, even in a rice-crispy-bar-induced sugar coma. I mean, I only ASKED ABOUT SOCKS. SOCKS!!
I also got a practice schedule along with my new second job, and the schedule included one on one swing techniques, wait, brace yourself: IN HIS BASEMENT HITTING STATION.What?! Who has a hitting station in. their. home? Wunderkinds dad, I assume.
By the way, in case you're wondering by now, they have to have black socks. I'm afraid to ask about pants. I might get promoted to assistant coach.
It's going to be a long, hot summer....