Jeremiah's School of Levitation
Upsy-Daisy!
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Confessions of a Little League Dad
Hello, my name is Jeremiah, and I'm a Little League Dad. I have become the cooler-toting, screaming at the ump, sunflower seed-spitting, grumbling and hooting fan that has seemed to forget that he's watching 7 and 8-year old kids who'd rather be throwing water balloons at each other than figuring out where the force out is, yet, the location of the force out is only slightly more important to the Little League Dad than the fact that his wife is trying to tell him that it looks like the van might have been left in neutral and is now drifting backwards out of the parking lot.
This was the thing I would have come to blows with you to deny that I'd become. No way would I ever fit into the suburban, local park ballfield crowd, chatting with settled wives and, candidly, with their husbands on the field as we suited up the kids with the catcher gear.
"Stand still," one dad said to the kid we were trying to wrap up in the catcher gear. "There's too many hooks in this thing and guys don't do so well with hooks and latches and all that stuff." When the kid left our earshot, the dad said, "That's why bras always tripped us up. All those hooks and latches."
And, some dad adds, "Yeah, and now that I've become pretty good at unhooking them, I don't get to do it anymore!"
Big, hearty, dusty-husband, side-of-the-mouth laughs all around, at the ballfield. I spit out a sunflower seed shell and wink at the guys.
But, back to the ball game. Tied. The playoffs. Top of the 6th, the last inning. If we win, we go to the championship game. I'm kneeling, growling, grimmacing at every pitch. I'm the scorekeeper, so I have to hang on every pitch, and, man does it feel like hanging.
The other team scores four runs in the top of the inning. My son drops a foul ball that would have been the last out. My stomach starts to hurt and I think I might have eaten a mouthfull of sunflower seeds, shell and all.
In the bottom of the 6th, we score no runs. We lose. Our division-winning season comes to an end. No matter--we love the team we lost to, and we vow to be at the championship game to cheer them on. And, we are. We all hate the other team--not the kids, but the coaches, who stretch the rules and have this sort of "living vicariously" through the kids thing that, thankfully, we do not have on our team.
Some faithful parents of our team show up at the championship game and we are pathetically loud. Many cries of "That's my kid!" erupt from proud fathers. Some fathers leave the bench and pace. "They're trying to see how much we can take!" one guy tells me.
(He also lets me in on the difference between rugby and soccer. Rugby, he said, is a hooligans' game played by gentlemen. Soccer, in contrast, is a gentleman's game played by hooligans.)
The game went into extra innings, calls were disputed, and coaches got hot, but sadly, the "evil" team beats the good team and the Little League championship goes to the dark side. We resist booing because we don't want to offend the kids, but in private, we curse and eye the baseball bats with thinly-concealed intentions of grabbing a few and taking out a couple of the evil team's coaches.
But, no time to grieve. There're All-Star tryouts tomorrow, and my boy, according to the coach, is the best all-around player on his team. So, I got him out to the field today to drill him on grounders, line drives, and pop flies, and some batting too. If he makes the All-Star team, he's got six games to play in the next two weekends against other all stars all over the Great Northwest. Meanwhile, I'm putting together a DVD of my son's team and that's taking a while because I want to make sure I show every kid getting a hit and making a play, and the music and editing must be just right.
And, then, there's the team party. So much to do. So much work for the Little League dad. I'm hooked. And, I know I'm hooked because, just before the championship game, which was played just a block from my house, I invited some of my son's teammates over to my house for cookies and they were all wearing their team jerseys and to see the team in my house, jumping around, wearing their colors, made this Little League dad swell up with pride. The team's in my house. What an honor! Cookies for all!
My name is Jeremiah. I'm hooked on Little League baseball and sunflower seeds. I am an addict.
YEAH, DAWG!
This was the thing I would have come to blows with you to deny that I'd become. No way would I ever fit into the suburban, local park ballfield crowd, chatting with settled wives and, candidly, with their husbands on the field as we suited up the kids with the catcher gear.
"Stand still," one dad said to the kid we were trying to wrap up in the catcher gear. "There's too many hooks in this thing and guys don't do so well with hooks and latches and all that stuff." When the kid left our earshot, the dad said, "That's why bras always tripped us up. All those hooks and latches."
And, some dad adds, "Yeah, and now that I've become pretty good at unhooking them, I don't get to do it anymore!"
Big, hearty, dusty-husband, side-of-the-mouth laughs all around, at the ballfield. I spit out a sunflower seed shell and wink at the guys.
But, back to the ball game. Tied. The playoffs. Top of the 6th, the last inning. If we win, we go to the championship game. I'm kneeling, growling, grimmacing at every pitch. I'm the scorekeeper, so I have to hang on every pitch, and, man does it feel like hanging.
The other team scores four runs in the top of the inning. My son drops a foul ball that would have been the last out. My stomach starts to hurt and I think I might have eaten a mouthfull of sunflower seeds, shell and all.
In the bottom of the 6th, we score no runs. We lose. Our division-winning season comes to an end. No matter--we love the team we lost to, and we vow to be at the championship game to cheer them on. And, we are. We all hate the other team--not the kids, but the coaches, who stretch the rules and have this sort of "living vicariously" through the kids thing that, thankfully, we do not have on our team.
Some faithful parents of our team show up at the championship game and we are pathetically loud. Many cries of "That's my kid!" erupt from proud fathers. Some fathers leave the bench and pace. "They're trying to see how much we can take!" one guy tells me.
(He also lets me in on the difference between rugby and soccer. Rugby, he said, is a hooligans' game played by gentlemen. Soccer, in contrast, is a gentleman's game played by hooligans.)
The game went into extra innings, calls were disputed, and coaches got hot, but sadly, the "evil" team beats the good team and the Little League championship goes to the dark side. We resist booing because we don't want to offend the kids, but in private, we curse and eye the baseball bats with thinly-concealed intentions of grabbing a few and taking out a couple of the evil team's coaches.
But, no time to grieve. There're All-Star tryouts tomorrow, and my boy, according to the coach, is the best all-around player on his team. So, I got him out to the field today to drill him on grounders, line drives, and pop flies, and some batting too. If he makes the All-Star team, he's got six games to play in the next two weekends against other all stars all over the Great Northwest. Meanwhile, I'm putting together a DVD of my son's team and that's taking a while because I want to make sure I show every kid getting a hit and making a play, and the music and editing must be just right.
And, then, there's the team party. So much to do. So much work for the Little League dad. I'm hooked. And, I know I'm hooked because, just before the championship game, which was played just a block from my house, I invited some of my son's teammates over to my house for cookies and they were all wearing their team jerseys and to see the team in my house, jumping around, wearing their colors, made this Little League dad swell up with pride. The team's in my house. What an honor! Cookies for all!
My name is Jeremiah. I'm hooked on Little League baseball and sunflower seeds. I am an addict.
YEAH, DAWG!
Elliot, 1:52 AM
3 Back at me:
you are cute.
that's all I have to say... :)))
that's all I have to say... :)))
okay, I'll say one more thing... a brolly is an umbrella, but I have no clue as to how it came to called such.
Well, ipodmomma's right, you are cute.
Our Boy-child's baseball team is a joy to watch, but Girl-child's t-ball team is even cuter. Picking flowers, lying on their backs while the ball rolls erratically towards them, the new baseball caps barely leaving them room to see...oh how I love this time of year!
(P.S. -- my Word Verification is "mypaw"...HAH!)
Our Boy-child's baseball team is a joy to watch, but Girl-child's t-ball team is even cuter. Picking flowers, lying on their backs while the ball rolls erratically towards them, the new baseball caps barely leaving them room to see...oh how I love this time of year!
(P.S. -- my Word Verification is "mypaw"...HAH!)
