Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Mayberry is a baseball town, they keep telling us. Nice fields, lots of former collegiate players and one very special Major League MVP. And I love baseball. I have no actual skill, but there is almost nothing that beats warm summer nights spent on bleachers with popcorn & some friends.

But in spite of all of this "we're a baseball town" nonsense, we've noticed a few things. Namely, they have no idea how to actually teach a team of children how to play baseball. We accepted the fact that no one understood soccer and the finer points of coaching, because, well, we're pretty sure that no one except my Yankee husband has ever actually played it. But Baseball? Mayberry's pride and joy? These awesome players must have been in some other league, because the baseball system as it stands right now stinks for little kids.

And although I have sworn time and time again that I would never ever become "that parent," here I sit. Cranky that there are 17 children on a single team, that there are 400 bored 7 year olds in the outfield, and that no coach is positioning a child's bat correctly. (And let me remind you? I have no skill. So if I notice the poor form? That poor kid might as well just share my popcorn, because he isn't hitting a beach ball, much less that thing they're throwing at him.) We are becoming the whiny parents. And I do mean whiny with a capital W.

I must digress here, and state that we're not becoming those parents who yell, or throw things at the coach, or anything like that. (That seems to be primarily reserved for hockey or soccer - baseball is much too lazy a sport for violence, I think.) We're just... disgruntled. Sweet husband has stepped into practice, worked the field during games, corrected batting form, and started to get more involved so that we're not just Whiners. We try, we say, yet no one wants to embrace the change.

But every game, we're gritting our teeth. Next year, we state, we will take over. Our child will have better instruction than this. And more fun, and less time to count daisies. And while we're at it, no U. South Carolina colored items. We (and the other parents sitting with us) know better, so we shall do better.

And our child? Does he feel the angst and the pain of large teams, boring outfield duty, and the poor color choice of socks? Does he too, wish and hope and pray fervently for rainouts?

Heck no. Our child happily throws his bag over his shoulder, runs onto the field, and has the time of his life.

Looks like we'll need to sit still, bite our tongue, and take a few for the team.