When I visit the registration site, I'm excited to see that Ace makes the mixed 4-year-old t-ball age cut-off by just two days. Oh, what fun...two boys at the ball field! I grab my platinum (as my husband call it, the "lead") card and register. I soon check my email to find out that the registration was processed (whew, I think, as I have no clue what the actual balance is on the low-limit card that is solely used for internet purchases - one can never be too careful about putting those random numbers into cyberspace, even if the site claims to be secure). Next comes a welcome message about grading. Huh? What in the world is grading??? I delve deeper into the CB site to find that all boys in the 9-10 league must be "graded." Really? In my day (yes, I am aging myself), we called it try-outs. No sweat, I think to myself. My kid is going to rock their world!
I'm excited as I report the recent events to the hubby. My husband played a little ball as a youth and he responded by saying that we'd have to get the boys gloves. No problem - we have time before the season starts. Charlie has school and I have the nanny lined up to watch Ace so I can accompany my husband to his doctor appointment (this is an ongoing theme - my husband is undergoing cancer treatments, so Tuesdays are doctor days). We head to Academy Sports on Tuesday and shell out nearly $90 for two itty-bitty baseball gloves. I always thought baseball was America's sport...who knew it was so expensive???
The day of grading finally comes. During the previous week, I relentlessly hounded Charlie about his nutrition and made sure that Charlie had a good night's rest prior to the big day. When we arrive at the field, I'm amazed to see two dozen men seated in uncomfortable portable chairs on the first-second baseline. As we get closer, I want to faint...there have got to be at least four dozen boys waiting for their "at bat." CRUD! Who in their right mind chose 6pm? We've had snacks after school, but now I've been stupid enough to bring the four-year-old to this thing. Gheesh! We'll be lucky if we make it home by 9pm! Dinner? Most certainly I'll scrounge up something...baths, on the other hand, will have to wait until tomorrow.
Charlie is suddenly shy - perhaps feeling a bit of my nervousness at this whole process. I walk with him as he tells the "fearful man with clipboard" his name. Oh, I guess some things haven't changed that much. Clipboard = Authority. Charlie is instructed to wait in line behind the other boys. I round up the wee one and we find a comfortable place on the bleachers. Wait a minute...what??? All the other boys have batting helmets, bats, baseball shoes (at least Charlie actually has his tennis shoes on, rather than his post-school staple of Crocs sans socks). A feeling of doom passes over me. What have I done? How in the world could I have thrown my first-born to the wolves, reeking of bacon?
As I watch the other boys confidently approach home plate to face the first pitch, I am overcome by feelings of guilt. Fortunately, I spot several familiar faces and enlist another mom to keep an eye on Ace as I figure out what to do. I track down the dude with the clipboard and explain to him that we've never played baseball before and are unfamiliar with grading. I tell him that we've come without a bat or helmet. "Authoritative Clipboard Holder" lowers his glasses and assures me that Charlie will be fine - he'll ask another player to provide a helmet and bat. At first I'm relieved, then I think we'll be labeled a charity case...nevermind, I tell myself. Charlie will "WOW" them nonetheless.
Donning a potentially lice-ridden helmet and some potentially fungal-filled bat, Charlie strides to home plate as if he'd been there a million times. First pitch - strike, second pitch - strike, third pitch - a nick...he made contact. Hooray! Other kids had done exactly the same thing. My heart is pounding and I'm grateful when batting is finished. Oh, where's that other kid? He's digging in the dirt with some other rugrats...perfectly content and doesn't even know that I've mentally neglected him for the past hour. Sheesh! We have been here for an HOUR!
Next comes fielding grounders. At least Charlie has a glove (not a broken-in extension of his hand, a glove which he has simply tried on). He does fine...juggles and stubbles a bit, but does fine in my untrained eyes. Then out-fielding...ouch, the poor guy looks genuinely afraid of the ball. Again, I find myself thinking...what have I done?
Grading complete at 9:20pm and we dash home. All I can frantically think about is that we have school tomorrow. The boys devour some mismatched left-overs, brush teeth, crash into bed and say prayers. I cannot sleep. I am consumed by guilt.
The alarm clock rings and I hit snooze...not good, as this means I will have no time to work out. I lie awake, not able to snooze, hating myself for torturing Charlie. The days go by and no word from the coaches about the draft. Finally word comes that Charlie will play on the Brewers team. Whew - he made the cut! I later find out that everyone makes the cut, but I'm thrilled that Charlie has a team. I eagerly contact the other moms and am surprised when one asks, "Why is Charlie playing 9-10 ball? He's only 8!" "By the time the official season gets underway, he will be 9," I explain. The mom (a mom I adore) hesitantly recommends that I ask the Commissioner (I find it amusing that a bunch of kids need a commissioner) for permission for Charlie to play 7-8, coach-pitched ball. I thank her for her advice and don't think twice about the predicament I've gotten us into...
The coach sends a friendly email with the practice schedule, which is in direct conflict with our plans for the upcoming week. Within minutes, I fire back a response that we can make the first practice, but will miss the next three because of prefectly ligitimate obligations: church choir, last session of his after school robotics class, and little brother's 4th birthday party on Sunday. I receive no reply. Not a good sign.
The Brewers have their first exhibition game and I am thrilled to see Charlie "suit up" in the catcher's pads. Yes! The coach sees his talent! Charlie rocks back and forth as he squat balances behind home plate. As a proud mama, I think he does well and the coach commends him for "taking one for the team" when he is whacked by a stray bat. Charlie strikes out, but swings with good effort. The game ends in a tie and all is well...for now at least.
We have a several LENGTHY (I'm talking 2-3 hour practices before the next game). I focus on what I'm good at - accessorising! I properly equip Charlie with only the finest cleats, properly weighted bat, socks and monogrammed bag (enlisting Dad's help, as he has a true Platinum card and we rack up another $200 in a flash). Just when he's prepared, Charlie comes down with a fever, which is a result of an incredibly nasty stomach virus that invades our entire household. With a family full of sleep-deprived, drenched in vomit, without a stitch of clean clothing, beings, Charlie misses the next three practices before the first game of the real season. I shoot the coach an email explaining the situation and again, no reply. Hmm...I can't believe that my son's presence, or lack thereof, isn't important enough to this guy to not warrant a response. I'm now peeved and wonder if this guy is suited for coaching at all.
The bug clears and we report to to field for pre-game warmups as instructed. The team is a few players shy because, go figure, there are a bunch of players out with a nasty stomach virus. Apparently the coach is desperate, and has Charlie play every position under the sun. Charlie is walked and makes it to first base. Whew! I'll take a walk to a strike out anyday, I think. The next batter is a phenomenal hitter and knocks the ball (almost) out of the park. Run, Charlie, run! Not so fast...you just missed third base, dude. He goes back to touch third and is tagged out (which, of course, is the third out), so the awesome hit doesn't mean diddly.
No surprise that the Brewers lost that game. The coach is angry, absolutely beside himself. The coach's wife apologizes to me for her husband's poor behavior. Charlie declines "team drinks" and just wants to head home. We get stuck behind the slowest moving train I've ever encountered and I attempt to console my heartbroken son. Charlie sadly says, "Mom, you can't make me feel better. I'm smart enough to know that I'm the reason we lost the game."
I make every effort to assure him that baseball is a team sport (how cliche). He's down on himself and baseball for the next few days, but pulls himself together after a few days. Practice is rained out, so we jump right back into a game. Charlie is now playing right field and thankfully (in my eyes), doesn't see any action. He gets walked and then strikes out...no biggie, as half the team does the same thing. The Brewers again lose and afterwards the coach says to me, "Charlie needs to come to more practices. The only way we're going to win is if our worst players get better." My son, one of your worst players??? I calmly reply, "Didn't you receive any of my emails?" He responds, "Yes, I get ALL of your emails." As I now think I've sent too many emails, I assure him that we're healthy and do not have pending obligations, so we will make it to EVERY practice from now on.
Charlie LOVES baseball. Regardless of how he felt, he was always ready, I mean ready at least an hour prior to games and practices. This, coming from a kid, who I usually have to drag out of bed for school. In a weird twist of fate, we discover that the coach lives around the corner from us. I've always admired the cute little girls that dance shoelessly in their front yard, but until this summer, have never noticed the adorable freckle-faced boy with sparkly eyes. All the coach's son wanted for his tenth birthday was for his dad to sponsor and coach his little league team. As we got to know the coach better, I realized that his passion for the game was almost as great as his passion for his son...and his stressful reaction to the devastating loss was partially fueled by the knowledge that he and his wife were expecting their fourth child. God bless this wonderful dad and his family! Shame on me for missing the point a few months ago.
Blah, blah, blah...I'm not going to bore you with a blow-by-blow recap of the entire THREE MONTH LONG season. The Brewers had their ups and downs...finishing 9th in a field of 17 teams. Along the way, Charlie got some hits, made good friends, captained the team twice and had the most spectacular confidence-building, game-saving catch ever during the Brewers only opportunity to appear before the GameDay recording crew. My hands shook with excitment as I filled out the paperwork - name, parents, favorite food, school, pasttimes, etc. I'm more pathetic than a kid at Christmas as I check the mailbox daily for that DVD! When the day comes, I'll be sure to share with you.
Batter up
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