The Boys of Summer

These two columns are being posted for my friend Josie and all the other young Moms who are having these moments now. My boy of summer is now 23. Like Bon Jovi said "The more things change the more they stay the same."

THE BOYS OF SUMMER


It’s that time of year again. Daylight saving time is in full bloom. The boys are counting down until the last day of school. So are the teachers. I am counting the days until the pool is open. Then it strikes.
“Hi. I’m the baseball coach. Practice is at …..”
The rest of the sentence is insignificant. The quest has started. He must have a new pair of cleats because his feet have grown three sizes. And a new pair of baseball pants because he has grown three sizes. And a new bat because it’s a new season. And a registration fee. And a new pair of batting gloves because the old ones are well… old. I liked the whole thing better when he was in t-ball.

I love t-ball. I think that all baseball should be t-ball until they reach the major leagues. The t-ball philosophy is much like my own. It’s fun. It’s fair. It’s not real life but then it’s not supposed to be. The kids all play. They play different positions. No one counts the runs. No one wins and no one looses. They pick dandelions in the outfield. And twirl around. The infielders pick up sand in their gloves. Every kid bats every inning. They bat off of a T. Until they get a hit. Games take time. They get so excited when the coach calls for practice they don’t sleep the night before. They can’t wait to get their baseball pants stained with the red clay of the baseball diamond. They practice sliding in the living room. Just to get it right. It is pure joy. “I’ve got baseball tomorrow.” It is a sacred rite of passage.

The joy of t-ball however doesn’t last long. I suppose that it isn’t meant to. The realization that in real life someone must win and someone must loose sets in fast. They start counting the runs themselves. The coaches start moving the kids around to different positions less and less eventually focusing on a few kids that become the core of the team. Batting off of a T is replaced by an actual pitcher. Batting averages are calculated. Batting cages become essential to give them “an edge.” Parents who are normally the nicest people in the world start screaming at their kids from the bleachers. Loudly. Coaches whose philosophy in the beginning of the season was to have fun and learn to play as a team have suddenly changed to Win, Win, and Win!! Baseball for the pure joy of the game has become major league baseball on a minor level.

I am lucky. I have one in t-ball and one in Babe Ruth. I still have a little boy to watch who is playing for the pure joy of the game. He is not worried about his batting average, his playing time. He is not focused. His eyes light up when he says the words. Playing Baseball.
I respond to T-ball. I clap for everyone. Both sides. Any kid. Every kid. Each boy that has the courage to stand in front of his peers and try deserves someone to cheer for him. It may be his parents. It will definitely be me. This has not gone unnoticed. I have had other T-ball Moms explain to me that the child I was clapping for was not on “our team.” My response is simply “I know but he tried his best.” This is usually met with a perplexed look.

My T-ball guy came out of his dugout because he noticed that I was clapping for the other team. He gently pulled me aside. “Why are you clapping for that boy? He’s not on our team.”
“He made a great catch.”

It was a line drive right to the pitcher. He caught it. The look on that little boy’s face when he opened his glove to discover that the ball was still in there, was one that every kid should have at least once in their life.
“He’s not on our team.”
“Does that mean it wasn’t a good catch?”
“No. It was a great catch.”
“Well?”
“Can’t his Mom clap for him?”
“She sure can. And so should I. Just like she should clap for you.”
“But she won’t.”
“No, she probably won’t. She should. It was a great catch.”
“Yeah it was.”
He learned a lesson that day. At the end of the game both teams lineup to give each other high five’s. He stopped at the kid who caught that ball. “Nice catch.”
He said smiling remembering a sweet catch by a kid whose name he doesn’t know. I love T-ball.





I’LL TAKE ONE JOCK PLEASE
HOLD THE ITCH


I am a Mom of two sons. The father of these two wonderful walking Y chromosomes assured me before our children were born, when discussing sports in a philosophical way. "I would like my kids to play sports." I was raised with sports. I am a sports gal. I played more sports than either my brother or my sister. I played more sports than both of them combined. I wanted my kids to play sports.

I had only one condition regarding sports. I made my prospective husband state out loud "Michelle absolutely, positively, never, ever has to buy a jock strap." It did not seem like a lot to ask at the time. Friends of mine were discussing such mundane items as religious preferences, money matters, sex, natural childbirth and having careers, but all that I asked was to not ever have to buy a jock strap. It was his one unconditional promise to me. He promised to love, honor, and buy all jock straps. It seemed like a bargain at the time.

I had gone through the sporting lives of my children unscathed until now. It started in a seemingly innocent manner. The coach was trying all the boys at the position of catcher. My seven year old was thrilled. Mike Piazza is a like an old family friend except for the fact that we’ve never met. The youngest knows how he positions himself behind the plate, where his hands are when he is catching and even how Mike wears his hat. I knew as soon as the coach asked him to get behind the plate that he had visions of Mike. He put on the equipment, set his hat the right way and jumped in there ready to rock and roll. He was good at it. Very good at it. Not many pitches got past him. The one’s that did he hustled to get. He knew right where each play was.

I am not an objective observer of my children, so I chose to keep my mouth shut to see what the coaches thought.
They thought the same thing. The phrase "He’s a natural “ kept being repeated. I listened in silence. Then they had the courage to tell me the good news. It went downhill from there.

“Do you have a cup?” the coach asked.
“A cup?” I responded wondering why on earth the coach wanted to know if I had a cup. Perhaps he wanted me to be the official coffee Mom. Then it dawned on me. Actually it didn’t dawn on me until he pulled an actual athletic supporter out of the equipment bag.
“Oh, A cup. No, I don’t have a cup. Does he need one?”
“League rules.”
“I take it he will be the actual catcher tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. He’s it. And he’ll need a cup. And a strap for the cup of course.”
“Of course.” I replied trying to be nonchalant while laughing on the inside just knowing that honey was going to have to fulfill the one unconditional promise he made before we were wed.
“If you can’t get him one before the game tomorrow, he can use this.” the coach replied handing me an actual cup held quaintly in it’s own plastic resealable bag along with the accompanying jock strap.
“Thanks.” I said completely at a loss for words. How do you respond when a man, to whom you are not married, or having a relationship with hands you a jock strap and cup? Thanks was the best that I could do. And it took me two minutes to think that up.

I analyzed the situation. This was not going to be as bad as I thought. First off, I didn’t have to buy one. I would only have to clean it. I must confess that I had no idea how to clean a cup. Is it dishwasher safe? Microwavable? The actual jock strap would not be a problem to clean. It goes in the washer along with a gallon of bleach.
Catcher boy was barely in the door and he had to try this thing on. I tried to explain the virtues of waiting until it had been sanitized, or at least bleached to death until actually putting it on his body but he would have none of it. I lost that battle. Then I lost the war. The jock strap was too small. A new one would have to be bought in the early morning. Guess who would be unavailable to do the actual purchasing in the morning? Guess who that would leave to actually go and walk into a store full of athletic men and ask one of them” Excuse me sir could you tell me where the jock straps are?” The excitement on catcher boys face would make it all worth while. I am a liberated feminist trying to raise non-sexist sons and I can handle it.

Catcher boy was up with the sun. “Come on Mom, it’s time to get up. We need to go buy a jock strap!”
Oh goodie. Jock straps and cups. And before breakfast. We set out for the store just him and I. He, full of questions about jock straps, and me, full of angst about him growing up too fast. Do I even want him in a sport that requires him to wear one of these things. The coward lives! It was more fun than even I could anticipate. The man, and I am using the term generously, that asked if he could help me, barely had facial hair, was no more than twenty, and was more embarrassed than I was at the prospect of having to discuss the intricacies of jock straps and the differences between the various brands. I knew this from the pretty shade of red on his face when catcher boy blurted out “I need a Jock strap!”
I decided that it was okay to be a coward so I let catcher boy ask all of the questions. He instinctively knew the questions to ask, and the jock strap salesman was very happy to ignore me. It was the last time it felt so good to be ignored. I was happy to pay the bill. I didn't even have to carry the bag.