For the Love of the Game

Spring in the South means many things: blooming dogwoods, azaleas in lush pinks and whites, seasonal allergies, weather ranging from a frigid frost to a sunny eighty-five degrees, afternoon storms with the slight chance of a pop-up tornado, and of course… youth baseball. Is there anything more American than a spring baseball game between eager kids scrambling to catch a grounder or a pop fly while nervous parents hold their breath? With the longer days comes harder-to-clean grass stains, the lingering smell of stale popcorn from a cinder block concession stand, a frantic, last minute search for new cleats, and my continuous love/ hate relationship with America’s favorite pastime.

I grew up being the younger sister to a naturally athletic older brother. This meant that each weekend of my childhood was spent at a soccer field or a baseball diamond just praying another little sister was there to play with, all while daydreaming about the Saturday morning cartoons I was missing out on. I was drug around for most of my formidable years through little league, intermural football, AAU basketball, and the dreaded All Star baseball summer travel team. I’ll never forget when my parents announced we were road tripping it to Florida in the middle of an extremely hot July. I was thrilled to be going to the beach! When I found out the destination was actually Ocala, Florida, my dreams of vast oceans and sea shell collections were crushed and replaced by a small kidney-bean shaped pool in the center of a two-story Howard Johnson with no natural water source in sight.

As I slowly developed into a professional game attendee, the baseball field is where I first observed the politics of sports, the tempers of stressed out fathers, and the gossip of young mothers. Since my brother was a talented pitcher at a young age, the All Star coaches sniffed him out quickly. I would notice the aggressive middle-aged men talking on the side lines with my father about his son’s arm, while also noticing the less athletic kids hanging their heads after realizing they weren’t being scouted themselves. The competition and politics started young, and I had a front row seat.

I became used to the feeling of anxiety when my brother was on the pitcher’s mound with three balls and two strikes. I quickly learned what a balk and a double out were. I dreaded the early morning games as it meant missing out on cartoons and the late nights under the ball field lights because it made for a sleepy struggle the following day. I learned how to make the perfect ice pack for a tired pitcher’s arm after seven innings on the mound. I distinctly remember it being the baseball moms who first congratulated me on getting my ears pierced as a ten-year-old (not the other ten year old girls in my class). I also remember absorbing the baseball mothers’ chatter and knew which husbands were in the doghouse at any given time, why so-and-so left so-and-so for the floozy secretary, or if Miss Mary Joe had finally given up smoking for the third time. I was the resentful baseball little sister who would pitch a fit about traveling to another oceanless town while my big brother pitched a no hitter…but boy, did I learn a lot about life.

Looking back, I think those years were just preparing me for having a baseball playing son myself. I knew exactly what we would be getting into when he began his journey with youth baseball, and I knew what type of team and coach I wanted my son to have (and not to have). When my husband asked if we should put my seven year old on a post season summer team, I responded with a loving but firm, “No.” I wasn’t ready to go down that rabbit hole as I looked at my almost four-year-old daughter and saw her fate laid out before her.

It’s also interesting observing the scene as a parent rather than a young girl. I’m ecstatic my little girl has other children to play with. I’ve enjoyed getting to know the other parents who simply want their children to have fun and learn great sportsmanship. I love watching my son learn important life lessons of teamwork and commitment through the game. And it cracks me up that my husband whose motto is “Don’t get involved” has now gotten very involved as the third base coach.

I also know that there are still certain fathers who are like the aggressive All Star coaches scouting from the sidelines in the early nineties. Only now, they arrive in their brand new Range Rovers dressed head to toe in matching LuLu Lemon sportswear (usually a tight V neck shirt to show the ab definition) with a fresh set of Ray-Bans to accessorize their gum smacking grins. Some even wear baseball pants themselves while yelling at the ump about his horrible calls. I’m still not sure if these men are there to see or be seen. The verdict is still out on that one.

I’ve quickly learned that the teams you don’t want to mess with have little boys with blue-tinted mirrored sunglasses, a mini mullet, matching bat bags, and a gold chain tucked somewhere underneath the jersey. Their mommas usually have coordinating rhinestone jerseys and whole heartedly believe that baseball is L-I-F-E. These women will lovingly remind you when your child is four that if you don’t get him on a team or some kind of intense batting camp “he’ll never make it” only to leave you questioning, “Make it to what? Elementary school? Junior high? The minors?” You can be sure every single one of their hitters on the team is a slugger, they’ll catch any type of pop fly that comes their way, and they have a set of oversized championship rings from multiple tournaments tucked away somewhere safe in their home.

That being said, things are continuing to turn for me. I still get a pit in my stomach when my son is up to bat- just like I did with my brother. (I just pray he doesn’t want to pitch next year). I still worry about my daughter being drug around to youth sporting events and bribe her with toys like my own mother did with a stuffed Miss Piggy I distinctively remember picking out. What truly tends to get me and keep me coming back is the joy I see from my son when he makes a great play or the hugs he gives to his teammates when they catch a crazy pop fly. For a long time, I not so secretly hoped my son would hate the sport, but with the right coach, he and his teammates have flourished. To my dismay, he loves it. And I’m actually starting to love it, too. Well… I’m starting to like it. And as long as he continues to have the time of his life, I guess I will just have to give in and finally accept that it’s all for the love of the game.

These Bogg Bags are great for the ballfield. Add your kid’s jersey number with one of these tags. Save the bag after the season is over, and it can double as a beach bag.

Looking for a great shirt as the spring season heats up? The fundamental shirt from LuLu Lemon is a great option. My husband loves them…but we’re still working on that ab definition.

Sip a coffee (or perhaps a cocktail?) from this adorable tumbler. Every team mom needs one or two of their own.

Here is the ultimate baseball watching chair. It rocks, covers your face from the sun, and even has a holder for that adorable baseball mug.

Finally, if you need a good read to get you into the baseball state of mind, Calico Joe by the great John Grisham is a great one!