Why I Briefly Hated Baseball, game two

Game two.

All afternoon when Tucker brought up the game I reminded him how important it is to always play hard and never give up. We talked about character.

And somewhere in the bottom of my black heart I hoped for rain, hurricanes, tornadoes, and any other natural disaster that would destroy the baseball fields and cause the tournament season to be permanently suspended so we never had to play another game. Alas, the sun shone and we showed up at the field right on time.

As the members of the other team began to trickle in, I was shocked to see they were not the amazon children of the previous night. No, they were somewhat normal in size and did not even bring entourages.  My hopes soared - we might be able to get a few outs and score a few points in this game.

I texted Trey (who was still at work), "We should be able to hang with this team!"  Win or lose, it wouldn't be the discouraging beat-down of the previous night. I loved baseball again.

The whole thing was a nail-biter. They scored four runs in the top of the inning; we scored three runs in the bottom. They went three and out on offense in the top; we never got a kid on base in the bottom. It was thrilling, this little league battle of skill and focus. We shouted to our kids - "good play!" and "you'll get it next time!"  It actually occurred to me that this was what baseball should be like -- friendly competition and excitement.

Until somewhere around the fifth inning. One of the other team's parents was running the scoreboard, and he neglected to give us one of the points we'd earned. I've run the scoreboard before, and I spent the entire game in fear of getting screamed at for errors, so the missing point disturbed me but not to the point of concern.

Until we run-ruled the inning with five points. Our boys should have been in the dug-out getting their gloves, and instead we were sending another kid to the plate. I think one of the coaches must have noticed and told the umpire because he ended the inning.  This drew whisperings and then shouts of confusion from the stands.  We only had four recorded points according to the scoreboard, and people were confused as to why the inning was over. Parents in the stands began telling the scorekeeper that the board should read thirteen instead of twelve, but he wouldn't listen. In fact, he was adamant that we only had twelve points and refused to change it. Finally the umpire had to come over and make him add the point. In one instant, the game went from intense, friendly competition to some parallel universe where people's lives depend on the outcome of little league games.

And I got a little riled up. It was whisper-y crazy, in my defense, but crazy nonetheless. I was fired up about that point. Why would you think the parent's on your opponent's team would lie to you about a point?  The inning was over according to the official, so the evidence clearly supported that those parents were right and you had made a mistake. Why be so rude about it?

As I whispered these thoughts to Trey, he just stared at me with that "you're turning into the crazy mom" look, and I made a mental note to work on my self-control.

In the bottom of the sixth, we were down by two points. We quickly scored twice to tie up the game, and I'm not kidding when I tell you that the tension on that field and in the stands was rivaled only by a world cup game complete with horns. It was edge-of-your-seat, intense baseball -- played by seven year olds.

The next batter approached the plate and hit a beautiful grounder that the opposing team fielded, but an overthrow allowed our runner on third to run into home. The stands erupted with cheers from one team and gasps from the other as this battle of the titans came to an end, but our opponent's bench erupted with something else.

The coaches were screaming and taunting the umpire about how we had done something illegal.  The umpire said a few words we couldn't hear from the stands, and then he simply exited the field.  As we began collecting our water bottles and Keaton's toys, we saw the coach from the other team storm off the field, on a mission. Word passed through the stands that he was going to get the league official.

If I was fired up before, then now I was going to explode.  I'm afraid my mouth began moving faster than my brain at that moment (in a normal voice this time, no more whispers), "My son is out there and these people are teaching him that when you lose you should get angry and yell and throw a fit, and this is unacceptable!  I am appalled! We won, life will go on, I promise. Let it go!" And I hated baseball and swore to never let Tucker play summer ball again for the rest of his life.

The league official did come to the field, and after some on-field conversation our runners went back to third and first and the opposing team grabbed their gloves and went back onto the field. I found out later that the concern was over the league rules regarding overthrows, and I still don't know if our run was legal or not. Apparently in the on-field conversation our coach said something to the effect of, "We won. But if you need us to play one more run we'll do it."



Our next batter jacked a fly ball to the outfield on the first pitch and our third base runner scored within a matter of seconds. Even with the preceding scene, the outcome of the game was not changed except for that last batter who now gets to tell stories of his spectacular hit.

And this team, this young, underdog team that had had the life pounded out of them the night before, got a win. A real-live big win, earned twice, and with a real-life example of good sportsmanship thrown in as a bonus.

And I loved baseball again.

Why I Briefly Hated Baseball, game one

or, as an alternate title, Heckling Etiquette for Baseball Fans.

This year, my son was eligible to try out for "All Stars" with our local Little League, only they didn't call it All Stars, just "Summer League," and rumor had it that all of the kids would make teams. Given Tucker's obsession with baseball and his natural athleticism (at least the seven year old version of athleticism), we were happy to let him try out.

The night of try outs arrived and we reached the ball field ready to watch our kid show his stuff. We soon realized that this wasn't just an itty-bitty "show what you can do" kind of evening. Around 60 kids were quickly being shuffled from one drill to the next - stop three grounders, catch three fly balls, figure out where the play is in a game situation, go, go, go.  At each station there were men, I assume coaches, taking down every awesome save and every grievous mistake on little clipboards. This was serious business.

Tucker was not the best kid out there, and he's kind of small for his age, so I left the tryouts happy that all the kids would make it because Tucker wasn't one of the top players, and I just flat out don't believe he's old enough to be told he isn't good enough for anything. He's seven, and he has lots of rejection to live through - it's part of life - but at seven he should think he is physically capable of absolutely anything.  I disliked the experience as a whole, and I suddenly hated baseball.

That Saturday we were supposed to get a call about what team he would be on, but no call came. Sunday, no call. Monday, no call.

Finally, I got an email from a dad we knew pretty well. His son and Tucker had played on the same soccer team when they were five, and we loved that team. All of the parents were nice and the kids were good - it was probably the best sports season Trey and I have had, and I feel like we've had quite a few. The dad, Brandon, said that Tucker would be on his team, and he gave some instructions about when they would practice, etc. The boys would practice Monday through Friday for the first two weeks of June. This sounded a little miserable to us, but Tucker was in absolute heaven.

When the roster of all the kids came, I realized that they were ALL seven. The age group was seven and eight year olds as of April 15th, so I knew there were nine year olds playing on the other teams. I knew immediately that our team was made up of the youngest players from tryouts - some of them barely seven.

But they were scrappy little seven year olds.  They worked so hard in practice, and we saw them improve so much. There were several really good coaches, and the practices were almost as serious as the tryouts, meant to make the boys better skill-wise. I was happy that Tucker had made this team, even if it looked like they might go two-and-out in the tournament. I loved baseball again.

The night of the first game finally arrived, and Tucker proudly wore his black jersey - the first uniform he's had with "Hickman" on the back. From the time he got up that morning, he was focused and pumped and excited. He was so excited, in fact, that we made it to the ball field around fifteen minutes before the designated arrival time because I couldn't listen to him beg to leave the house for the game anymore.

Just after I took my seat in the bleachers and opened the book I was reading as my pre-game warm-up, the other team - and their parents - swarmed the field. I was aghast! This couldn't be the team we were playing. The kids looked twelve. I double-checked to make sure we were at the right field, and I started hating baseball again.

The parents from the somewhat local team (a small town nearby) moved in on the field like troops going to battle, rolling up their coolers and unloading their lawn chairs right in front of the bleachers. In a matter of minutes, the entire fence behind home plate was lined with parents in their blue team shirts, creating a sea of intimidation for our young, hard working team.

Now, I must say that I've never understood the phenomenon of putting lawn chairs against the fence in front of the bleachers. Clearly, the bleachers are there so people can sit in them and watch the game, so the chairs in front of them eliminate the view from the entire first row.  This makes no sense to me.  And it wasn't the only thing that didn't make sense.

These parents were loud. Annoying loud. I can deal with shouts of encouragement, but I can only describe what they were doing as heckling their own children. It began in pregame warm-ups and continued throughout the game. If a kid missed the ball, his dad would shout "What are you doing? You should have had that!" On and on it went, and it made me a nervous wreck. I whispered to Trey that I had the most self-control of anyone in the whole world because I wanted, so badly wanted, to scold them.

Here's how it played out in my head:

Crazy Parent (jumps out his chair, screams at his own kid): Get your glove on the ground!  It went right by you!

Me: Sit down, ya loony! None of us want to see the sweat crease running down the crack of your shorts!

Crazy Parent (disgusted): Aw...why did you swing at that?

Me: Maybe if you wouldn't spend all your money on chaw and Lone Star, you could buy your poor kid some glasses.

And on and on it went in my head. They yelled, and I came up with hilarious, witty insults to throw back at them. And I chose to keep my mouth shut. My husband was very proud.

I think it goes without saying that the other team "drilled us" in Tucker's words. I don't remember the score, but they had somewhere around twenty, and the game was called for run-rule in the fourth inning. It was probably their parents never-ending heckling that made them so good.  Our formerly excited, baseball-loving kids were dejected and, I think, a little embarrassed.

And because the tournament was double-elimination, we had to play again the next night.

And I hated baseball.

Slobs

I'm raising slobs.

That's right. My kids would never consider actually picking up after themselves unless I threaten to remove all pleasure from their daily lives. I'm raising slobs, and it's all my fault.

See, I like things to be picked up. Don't check the backside of my ceiling fans or anything because cleaning is not exactly my strong point, but I can't stand it when there is crap everywhere (or the plural "craps" as my friend C would say). How do I make my life better?  I pick up the craps and put them away.

Every mom in the great green world knows that no matter what it is (cleaning included), it's easier just to do it yourself than to beg, plead, threaten, and beg again for the kids to do it. In addition, if I pick up the craps they will be put where they belong rather than under the bed, in the closet, in the dog's kennel or any other place where they can't be seen anymore.

Sidenote: Contrary to popular belief, just because something is out of sight does not mean it is "put away."

Alas, my kids are slobs because the husband and I pick up after them all of the time.  But the times they are a'changin.

It's summer, and my goal this summer is to teach my kids to voluntarily pick up their own craps. I know what you're thinking, sounds crazy, right?  Only in a perfect family utopia would kids actually get toys out, play with them, and then put them away, right?  Well, friends, we're on our way to that utopia right here in the Hickman house.

We haven't actually left the station yet, but I've started to believe it can be done, and that's probably half the battle, right?

I've decided I have to attack each child's sloppiness in a unique way. First, let's talk about Tucker because he's the easiest to intimidate. He knows rules and he follows them, much like his dad, so he's my first target. 

Tucker's life activities involve only baseball. He's either at baseball practice, tossing a ball in the air, watching baseball games, or analyzing the MLB draft (sometimes all at once).  You would think that playing baseball wouldn't be messy, needing only a glove and ball, but you'd be wrong. I don't think Tucker can so much as touch a ball without getting out his glove, his dad's glove, two bats, home plate, catcher's gear, a jersey for the team he wants to pretend to be on that day, and ten or twelve million wiffle balls.

My plan for Tucker is a Gale Greeson special.  I'm going to tell him once to pick up his stuff, and then I'm going to start loading it in a trash bag.  This genius plan operates under the assumption that if he leaves it out, it must be trash because of course he would put away things that are important to him, right?  If I'm firm and stick with the plan, I think I can have him on the utopia train in about a week.

Then if I can just convince him to pick up the "crust" of his pop tarts when he's done with them, we'll be in great shape. You may be thinking "aren't pop tarts all crust?"  Yes, they are, however, Tucker only eats the part that has filling in the middle and leaves the outside edges all over the place for someone else to come pick up. I wish I was kidding.

Keaton, on the other hand, is going to be a little more difficult. If I were to load up his stuff in a trash bag, he would cross his arms, set a scowl on his face, and announce "I don't care.  I don't like that stuff anyway." I know this from experience.

I have to find a way to bribe him. Money? Candy? Grapefruit? (he loves grapefruit)  If you have any ideas, please post a comment and enlighten me.

I can see the picked-up home utopia on the horizon, and I am determined to make it there before the fall. I am determined!

The Posterboard

Well, crap.

I was faced with my worst nightmare: a blank white posterboard that I was supposed to "decorate to reflect Keaton's time at Longmire." The major problem was that it was blank and I had to decorate it. I hate to decorate things. It's why I can't be an elementary school teacher -- I am automatically disqualified by my inability to make clever and cute bulletin boards.

For the first few days, I let the posterboard sit on the dining room table, staring up at me with its incredible blankness, mocking my lack of craftiness. Keaton wanted to start coloring it with random crayons right away, but I convinced him we needed a plan. Tucker, the King of Plans, immediately got some paper and began to sketch possible configurations of the poster's design.

I knew that if I decorated that poster, it would look like I had turned a herd of two year olds loose on the thing. It actually occurred to me, somewhere in the evil parts of my soul, to let the dog pee on it, then splatter on some grape jelly, and glue on a couple of pictures of my little man and call it "art." I envisioned myself explaining to everyone at graduation how it was "an exact replica of a very expensive piece I saw when I took the boys to Paris last summer because they were just begging to visit all the great galleries." I figured my "art" would probably smell, so I quickly ditched the plan.

Finally, it hit me. I don't have to be crafty. I just have to know crafty people. I quickly dialed my friend Tiffany to beg a favor. We agreed that Friday after school we'd make a trip to the local craft store together (I couldn't be trusted to go alone), and then she would come over with her amazing box of crafting gear and make the poster.

At the craft store, Keaton picked out some construction stickers and then we began looking for paper. The stickers had yellow on them, so I suggested some orange paper I found. Gently, Tiffany admonished me, "The orange won't provide any contrast, though. We need some blue, maybe."

Yep. I can't even pick out paper.

After the craft store, we went to the local liquor...er...I mean, specialty...store to pick up a nice bottle of red wine and some cheesy appetizers. I had to contribute something to this effort, after all.

And for the next two hours Tiffany cut, trimmed, stickered, corner thingy-ed, and otherwise created the world's most awesome pre-school graduation poster. I sat calmly nearby, enjoying my wine and providing what I'm certain was the world's most intriguing conversation.

On Monday, when I proudly took the poster to school, everyone was amazed at my artistic abilities. People all over the building ooohh'ed and aahhh'ed and I'm sure were terribly jealous of Keaton's poster.

I, of course, responded with, "This ol' thing? It was nothing. It took me no time at all!"

The Adventures of a Mediocre Mommy

It all started with a blank white posterboard and a note:

"Dear Parents, Please decorate this posterboard with the theme 'What I learned at Longmire.' Feel free to include samples of art work and handwriting and also pictures of your child. We will be displaying these posters at our pre-school graduation on May 20th."

Then another note:

"Dear Parents, Good news! Our parent graduation committee has reserved _____ Hotel in Bryan for our pre-school graduation. This hotel is newly built and a beautiful facility in which to host this important event. We are so grateful to the committee for securing this wonderful location for us!"

Then another:

"Dear Parents, Please send $16.95 for your child's graduation cap and gown."

Then another:

"Dear Parents, Please complete the attached RSVP for our pre-school graduation so that our parent graduation committee can adequately plan for the event and the reception to follow. We will have cake and punch along with a special program, and our parent graduation committee has put together an exciting video presentation to reflect on your child's time at Longmire. If you'd like to help decorate the facility for graduation, please let me know."

Then came the handmade invitation complete with multi-colored paper and ribbon and personalized with my child's picture and artwork at the bottom.

Call me crazy, but people have been born, married, and buried with less fanfare. This was a pre-school graduation, for goodness sakes! I know this may sound like sacrilege to some, but, honestly, it's not that big of an accomplishment. I'm pretty sure that even if he didn't know his colors and couldn't tell me what sound an "S" makes he would still be "graduating."

My first thought, if I'm being honest, was "Who the hell has the kind of time to care this much about pre-school?"

My second thought, only moments later,was more of an epiphany. It was a defining moment of my life, if you will. It was spiritual.

I am a mediocre mommy.

That's right. By today's suburban standards, sometimes I suck. I let my kids put stickers on the wall and play catch in the living room. They take off on their bikes and I may not see them for 20 or 30 minutes. Just yesterday, they played for six straight hours wearing only their underwear. When Tucker got pegged in the shin with a baseball last week, I yelled through the fence, "Get up! You're fine!" I think pre-school gradations should involve paper hats and pizza for lunch.

I'm not crafty. I can't decorate things. I forget to regularly wash their sheets. I have road rage in front of them. I inadvertently use the words "jackass" and "crap." And sometimes, every so often, I just want them to leave me alone.

Don't get me wrong, I love my kids more than my own life. Next to my husband, they are the single greatest source of joy in my life. I want them to grow up to be well-adjusted and happy and kind.

But I can't cook a five course dinner in heels and a prom dress while they sit silently at the table in our pristine home making artwork for nursing home patients. This is not my world, even if everyone else around me wants me to believe it's theirs.

I am not, and I never will be, a Super Mommy. I have no desire to try. As the pre-school graduation from hell materialized, I resolved to never again care that I can't meet the present-day standard.

I stand before you (or my computer, actually) proud to be a Mediocre Mommy.

I Win

When Keaton doesn't get his way, he screams.

His mother, however, has figured him out. When he screams, I just speak to him in a calm voice and then ignore him. It works every time. Eventually.

Tonight he screamed in the parking lot of Tucker's baseball game because he left his bag of tricks at home. To each game he carries a backpack full of little trucks, tractors, gum, suckers, mints, and whatever else he thinks he might need while enjoying another one of Tucker's baseball games, but tonight he left it at home.

He screamed. I calmly explained that it was okay, and we would find a solution. Then I ignored him and continued to walk toward the ball field. In a second or two, he stopped screaming and followed me. I win.

Then, once we were seated he realized he left his gatorade in the car. So we hiked back to the car only to find that he had left the gatorade at home. So he screamed.

As a sidenote, I put two gatorades on the counter before we left and told the boys to each carry their own. They both immediately picked up the bottles and headed straight for the truck. I saw them, so I know it happened just that way. Somehow, neither gatorade made it to the game. I don't even know how it's possible, but it happened. There must be a black hole in the garage.

Anyway, Keaton was screaming again. I calmly told him that when Daddy got to the game with some money we could buy a new gatorade, and then I ignored him. He stopped screaming. I win again.

On the way home, he decided he wanted McDonalds for dinner. I told him we would eat at home tonight and maybe stop another night to eat out.

He screamed. I ignored him.

But he kept screaming.

This time he added what I'm sure he thought were great arguments.

"I AM TELLING THE TRUTH! I WANT MCDONALDS!"

"I AM NOT EATING ANYTHING TONIGHT UNLESS IT'S MCDONALDS!'

"YOU GO TO MCDONALDS RIGHT NOW!"

Undaunted, I cranked up the radio as loud as it would go (some REO Speedwagon was playing, so that was fun), and I continued to ignore him. When we got home, Trey got him out of the truck and recognized the problem, and Keaton continued to scream off an on for the next few minutes.

As he sat at the bar in the kitchen while we all started throwing together dinner, he stopped screaming to announce authoritatively, "I am not eating anything that doesn't come from McDonalds."

"That's your choice," I said, "Good luck getting there." And I walked away.

What happened? He ate a hot dog. I win again.

Something else didn't go his way just a few minutes later -- I think I stopped paying attention to his percieved misery around 7:30 -- and the words came out of my mouth before I remembered he was four.

"Stop. Instead of crying or screaming can you please just speak to me like a grown up?"

Clearly he's a long way from being a grown up, but I was making a point, for goodness sakes. He stopped, composed himself, and spoke to me in as grown up a voice as he could muster.

I win again.

When it Rains, Part 5

Hogan and I followed the Garmin's directions to the nearest ER somewhere close to midnight. When we arrived, the parking lot was packed. I remarked something about hoping there were no gunshot wounds ahead of us, and we decided not to commit - to first check out the number of people waiting.

Hogan now describes the scene as something out of the movie John Q, and he anticipated that at any time someone wielding a gun would demand to cut in line and we would surely let him. Since I've not seen that movie, I regarded it as a Thanksgiving episode of the television series ER -- people everywhere coughing and hacking and crying and talking and probably bleeding all over the place. I'm not sure though, because we didn't stay long enough to look for bleeders. In fact, we didn't even sit down.

Our conversation back in the car went something like this:

Me: I'm sorry. I guess I'm spoiled and stuck up. I can't stay in there. It doesn't hurt that bad.

Hogan: Good. Because at some point they were going to have to take you back to check out your wrist, and I would be alone in there. Not good.

He drove in circles while I tried to decide what to do. Did I really need an emergency room? Was I being a wimp? The clincher in my decision was that I was supposed to drive kids back to College Station the next day, and I didn't need to do that if I wasn't first checked out by a medical professional.

Okay, it also hurt like hell, so that was a factor, too.

Finally I decided that we were only an hour from my parents and my sister. I didn't want Hogan to think I doubted his ability to care for me, so I explained that eventually I was going to have to pee, and I didn't think I was capable of unbuttoning my own pants. He's a good friend, but not that good. He wholeheartedly agreed.

I texted my sister to see if she was awake, and she was, so I called her. Here's how that conversation went:

Me: Hey. I've hurt my wrist, and I need to go to the emergency room. Can you meet me at the one in Waxahachie?

Wendy: What?

Me: I hurt my wrist. I'm in Arlington with school kids. Can you meet me?

Wendy: How did you hurt your wrist?

This began many, many explanations of how my injury came about in the first place.

Me: Well, we were at Six Flags, and we decided to have piggy back races, and, well, I fell and hurt my wrist.

I'm pretty sure my ear needed medical attention after the screeching volume of her laughter. Thanks, Wendy, for laughing at me in my hour of need.

Anyway, Hogan took me to the Waxahachie emergency room which looked only slightly less like a third world country than the Arlington emergency room, so Wendy and I wished Hogan a safe trip back to the hotel and decided to hit up the Ennis ER. It was closer to her house, anyway.

Long story short (okay, just less long because this is part 5), we saw the world's oldest doctor in the world at the Ennis ER and left sometime around 3:30 a.m. with a splint on my arm but no indication it was broken. This was, of course, after I explained to every overnight employee in that hospital that, yes, I am 32 years old, and yes, I was riding piggy back on a friend in a race, and no, we didn't win.

Wendy took me back to her house to get some sleep, and when we woke the next morning I called my dad to fill him in on the situation and ask him to take me back to Arlington.

And I explained the story again.

Unshowered and unkempt, I rejoined the best StuCo in the world around 10:00 a.m. to watch the last program. We emoted about the end of a long journey to serve as a state secretary school. I was just a passenger, but I was no less affected by the significance of this journey's end. We took lots of pictures (like the ones below) and then headed back to good ol' College Station.

We got back to school, returned rental cars, and went our separate ways to our own homes. Lucky for me, the best family in the world was waiting for me, and I was so exhausted and in pain that I just wanted to crawl into bed.

Trey ran me a hot bath and helped me undress and get cleaned up. By this time I couldn't take a deep breath without wanting to cry in pain, and I decided that wrist sprains must be far worse than childbirth.

Around 6:00 p.m., Trey and the boys went to run an errand (probably get dinner), and I crawled into bed hoping to sleep for a week. For no reason at all, I glanced over at the phone and noticed there was a voicemail. The message there made me feel strangely vindicated for what I had thought was just wimpy-ness.

"This message is for Stormy Hickman. My name is ____, and I'm calling from the emergency room in Ennis. It seems that your wrist is broken and you'll need to see an orthopedist as soon as possible. Call us back if you have any questions."

And then, for the first time since my injury, I cried. The hospital said my wrist was broken, so now I had an actual reason to be in pain, and I cried like a baby all by myself.

As I relate the story over and over to people who ask about my cast (most of them think I have carpal tunnel syndrome, by the way), many people remark about how there is a lesson to learn here and that maybe I'm too old for such shenanigans. I'm always reminded of my dad saying "you're only as young as you feel," and I don't think my age is the message at all.

Remember how I didn't ride the roller coasters because I didn't want to plummet to my death or impalement on an amusement park ride? Guess who is the only person who got hurt that night?

The clear lesson?

Safety doesn't pay.