The 4th of July is the grandest holiday in the summer season at our town’s swimming pool.

First, there’s a small parade of old cars, old politicians, young Scouts, a rag-tag band of musicians, and a huge flotilla of kids on anything with wheels.  The kids and bikes, scooters, and strollers are all gussied up in red, white, and blue, of course.  One year, a woman who lived on the parade route dipped and distributed mini ice cream cones to the passing crowd.

The parade ends at the pool.  There are games on water and on land, and the whole shebang ends with a giant picnic.  The day at the pool was, for our boys, Christmas in July.  Today’s photo shows Hugh flipping on the 4th, a few years ago.  He loves this picture because of the implied vapor trail. 

Now?  Our boys couldn’t care less about the town celebration.  Ian was the only person from our family who even went to the pool yesterday, and that was only because he was working as a lifeguard.

More globally, our boys couldn’t care less about the pool.  There is definitely a bell curve for kids and pools.

First, they can’t swim and may be scared of the water.  You have to be with them every minute.  As toddlers, they fall frequently on the wet pool decks.  You have to dry their tears.  They are still in diapers, which become saturated and bloated with water after a few minutes in the baby pool. 

God forbid the dreaded Diaper Burst occurs, which dooms you to picking up the bits of wet cotton and those weird absorbent gel pills for the next 15 minutes.   This ecological disaster bears some similarities to the BP oil spill, complete with the apologies to disgusted pool users.  “We deeply regret the flaws in our diaper management system and are doing all we can to restore the pool and playground area to its original condition so that all may enjoy it again.” 

Once toilet trained, the kids advance to the shallow end of the large pool.  You still must watch them like a hawk, or play with them every minute.  I for one should have perfectly toned arms from those hours of playing Motorboat, Motorboat with my boys.  They wanted constant  interaction with us, back in those days. 

Then they learned to swim, and took the big pool test, earning the honor of going off the diving board and allowing them to be under the watchful eye of only the lifeguards. 

When Ian passed this test, I created a tour de force of a celebratory dessert.  It was a sheet cake, with blue tinted icing and Twizzler lap lanes.  The diving board was made from a Lik-M-Aid dipper and frosting.  The swimmers were Teddy Grahams.  The piece de resistance was a Teddy Graham doing the sidestroke in the laplane, which everyone at the pool instantly recognized as the lady who does only that stroke, keeping her head bobbing above the water, and who yells at the kids for splashing her when she’s near the diving board.  They never understand why she’s upset about getting wet while she’s in the pool, and frankly, neither does anyone else.

At the age of 10, the kids are allowed to go to the pool alone, with no parent or babysitter acting as chaperone.  This was a godsend for our family, because our house is located just a short hike through backyards and woods away from the pool.  For the next couple of years, the boys are completely digging their independence, and so are we.

By the middle of middle school, though, it’s all over.  The pool has lost its luster.  They stop going.

We can only get Hugh and Malcolm to go if that’s where the family dinner will be served.  Chris uses the pool, and does his 1000 laps every summer.  Ian works there.  I go once in a blue moon.  It’s a wasting asset – sadly.

And the bell curve ends, as flat as it began.

Men care about sex, sports, and sexy sports cars.

This is why the sports section contains ads for radial tires and “gentlemen’s” clubs.  It’s why sports broadcasts contain commercials for little blue pills and curve-hugging cars.  It’s why buxom women are draped over the hoods at auto shows, and, in a perfect trifecta, why prostitutes solicit men in cars outside sports stadiums.

Men have always had sexual fantasies, a private matter. 

Now men have sports fantasy teams, a public matter.  There are commissioners, late night deals, email fisticuffs, charts, furtive phone calls from strange men who don’t want to identify themselves in case the wife doesn’t know, and small grub-check payouts at the end of the season for the winners.  As a result, they’ve become even more rabid in their sports fan-dom.

One thing men do not value so highly is honesty. 

In Philadelphia this past week, the 2008 MVP of the Phillies, Cole Hamels, admitted he “can’t wait” for the season to be over.  The schedule is brutal, he’s exhausted, he’s ready for some rest and a fresh start. 

The sports nuts and deluded fantasy team owners erupted in rage.  You would have thought Cole had admitted a plot to blow up the stadium.  He is the Guy Fawkes of the city.  No doubt he’s hanging in effigy in some yobbo’s backyard right now.  A year ago, he was a god.  Men especially worshipped him because he was not only an amazing pitcher with a cool sports car, but he also had a sex-bomb wife who had been in Playboy.

But this year, Cole committed the worst crimes possible:  not pitching perfectly, and  telling the truth. 

He didn’t please the male sportcasters with their absurd facial hair by spouting such boring on-script inanities as ‘giving 110 percent’ and ‘taking it one play at a time.’   He actually said something original!  But negative.

I saw an ESPN maniac excoriating Cole, shaking his head angrily and intoning, “You don’t say that.  You don’t do that to your team.  Never.  NEVER!”  The rants go on, on radio, on blogs, in the newspapers.  Men are beside themselves, quivering with rage.

I think most women have a different take on this.   We see the complexity of Cole’s  home life.  In a bit of bad timing, Cole and his wife Heidi conceived their first child back in the early winter.  In a further bit of bad timing, she went into labor early in a post-season playoff game, and Cole rushed from the dugout to the hospital (another crime.  You don’t leave a game before it’s over.  You don’t do that to your team.  Never.  NEVER.)

(If managers want to really improve their chances for winning the World Series, they should issue executive orders that all babies are to be conceived in the spring, with a nice off-season due date.)

Oblivious as all babies are to the chaos he would cause, little Caleb was born in early October.  I would wager that Cole’s mother-in-law has been staying with the family ever since – that’s a complete month of a MIL in the house so far.  I don’t care how big or grand the penthouse or how much you love your MIL, that’s a long time. 

Do you remember those early days of having your first baby at home?  Nothing is normal.  Everything is topsy-turvy and chaotic.  A major shift in lifestyle is going on, and it takes months, if not years, for things to feel calm and under control again.

Our former ace pitcher is not getting enough sleep.  His wife just had a baby, so she’s hormonal and in a “no touch” zone.  His mother in law is around 24-7.  His team is in the World Series and the expectations of a city are on his shoulders.  Of course the poor guy just wants the baseball part of this equation to be over.  Too much sports.  Not enough sex.  The car is no consolation.

When he and Heidi look back on the Fall of 2009, what should be the golden memories of their first child’s birth will be tainted by the scorn and hatred of sports-mad Americans.  Mostly men.

Where was the outrage from men when David Letterman’s appalling sexcapades came to light?  Nowhere to be seen.  

But when Cole Hamels slips and speaks the truth?  Pitchforks and torches.

See the headline?  That’s August in Philadelphia.  It’s the way you’ll hear weather described on the radio and by people in the grocery store.  Around here, folks pronounce “humid” not with an aspirated H at the beginning, but as if there’s no H at all.

This is also true of the way my middle son’s name is pronounced.  Chris and I didn’t think of this before choosing the name, but it became apparent shortly after bringing him home from the hospital.  One of my friends called to check on us. “So, how is you doing?”  she said.  I had three reactions.

1.  Shock at her poor grammar

2.  Amazement that I had never noticed before

3.  Realization that she was asking how HUGH was doing. 

The poor kid was called Ewe-eee at nursery school, where the teachers nicknamed everybody.  When he got older and started playing organized sports, it was confusing to hear coaches yelling “You, pass it!”  Belatedly, we realized that names with hard consonents were best for cheering from the sidelines.  MAX.  CHUCK.  BRETT.  DIRK.  All are good for screaming during sporting events.  HUGH just sort of drifts away into thin air.

Mind you, I still love the name and don’t regret choosing it.  Except when some Fluffian, as they say in South Philly, calls him EWE.

In an era when parents, educators, and child development professionals are so wonderfully committed to the virtues of diversity, kindness, and nurturing the holistic kid, why does the practice of “picking teams” still have a place in organized recreation?

My humble opinion: This process should be viewed with the same disdain as letting your children ride in the car without seatbelts or sending them off on their bikes without helmets. The only difference is that in these last two examples, a child might get hurt. When picking teams for a game, a child always gets hurt. Everytime.

I realize that this is a non-issue if your kid gets picked first. Or second. Or even sixth or seventh. But what about the child who is picked last for every team? He has to stand there alone knowing that he is not wanted and is only chosen when no other choice is left.

How is this ritual not the cruelest, most humiliating process ever?

And there are so many ways around it. A semi-intelligent adult can divide teams fairly without much trouble. Or, if picking teams is still something that rewards the best players, then pick the first two or three players and then have the adult divide the remaining group. Don’t leave a child standing by himself. It is the equivalent to getting voted off the island again and again.

I know I’m raging. But I think I am about to mount a crusade so I need to know if I am being too emotional because it is my sweet boy standing there. Alone.

Tell me if I am overreacting or right on target. Pick sides.

It’s Little League playoff season. The end is near. Thank God. For weeks now, we have rushed to the fields for 6:00 p.m. games, with our folding chairs, Gatorades, and surly siblings in tow. I love America’s pastime as much as the next Mom. But suffice it to say, we are all getting a little weary.

Nobody eats well on baseball nights. At the last game, one Mom and I had a serious discussion about whether mustard counts as a food group. Her kid had a granola bar for dinner that night, trumping the soft pretzel I served. Our kids were the lucky ones. I swear I overheard a conversation between two parents that went something like: “No, I thought you fed them.”

The “playoffs” are double elimination. Two losses and you’re done. Home free. Noah’s team fell early. Chase’s team has one loss – one more to go. And if you listen carefully at these games you can actually hear that little voice inside every parent’s head that is quietly pleading with the little league Gods to please let our kids lose. Of course these sentiments are never expressed out loud. Well, maybe they are. But only at a very low decibel level no louder than a sideways mutter to the Mom or Dad sitting directly next to you. You know there is a whole lotta mutterin’ going on.

But hey — here is one sentiment I may not share with others: I prefer to be on the losing team. Not just for playoffs — but all season long.

Why? Because it’s just tons more exciting to be part of a losing team. When your kid is on the team that always wins, the victories are less meaningful. But when the team hasn’t won all season, every game is a new opportunity to capture that single triumph. And when your kid strikes out a lot, every time he hits, your heart just soars. Even a walk or getting hit with the ball and taking the base is cause for celebration. I’d rather have the opportunity to come from behind than always be far ahead. And, frankly, losing teaches kids more. It’s a cake walk to be a gracious winner; but the kid who learns how to be a gracious loser trumps them all.

Sadly, Chase and White Sox won tonight so its back to the field tomorrow night. I think I’ll try Cheddar Chex Mix for dinner – for the dairy.

You know what they say. You can’t win ‘em all.