I had offered all sorts of alternatives to playing baseball this year including investing in weekly golf lessons.  Chase said he wanted to play ball.

I explained to him that he would be one of the youngest on the team which could mean batting last and an entire season in right field. Chase said he wanted to play baseball.

I casually mentioned to him that his teammates this year might have facial hair and prison records and that I would seriously consider buying him a Camaro if he sat this season out.  Chase said he wanted to play baseball.

At this point, I realized I was engaged in a psychological behavior pattern called “projecting” and signed him up, steeling myself for a long season ahead.

Longtime readers of MoB know that I have gleaned a ton of writing material from watching my boys play baseball, not because of their outstanding athletic prowess, but actually from a lack thereof.  While Chase is not a complete lost cause, he is decidedly average in skill.  And the major leagues are populated with kids who are decidedly above average.  If I could have avoided watching him struggle this season, I would have –  even if it cost me a Camaro.

Thankfully, Chase had different ideas.  And this weekend, he found himself on second base after connecting his bat with the ball and taking advantage of an overthrow to first.  Statisticians classify this as an “unforced error.” Moms classify it as a FREAKING DOUBLE.

WOOOT!

The smile on my face was only out shined by Chase’s.  Despite his instincts to remain cool, unbridled joy radiated out of my kid and lit up the field.  One of the parents captured the moment with his camera.

During the same game, I watched our coaches try to calm another child – one who was very athletic – who became distraught after failing to perform at his usual stellar level.  As I watched this boy struggle with his disappointment, I began to appreciate the Law of Average.

Every child on Chase’s team – or any team for that matter — has the opportunity to perform above or below expectations.

The best scenario the strongest athletes can hope for is to perform at the high level that is expected of them.  If they always exceed expectations, than that level of performance becomes the norm and the only direction to go is down.

However, the average performer has a far greater upside and, (most likely) reasonable expectations when it comes to an average performance.  This is why Chase doesn’t cry and slam the bat when he strikes out – and it’s why his smile could power a night game when he gets a hit.

Ironically, I thought Chase’s potential for disappointment this year would be higher than the other boys because of his average ability.  Admittedly, it’s why I didn’t want him to play.  But, in fact, the opposite is true.  The kid has no where to go but up – and if he doesn’t perform in every game, he is still meeting the reasonably average  expectations set for him.  He wins no matter what.

As for the best kid on the team?  We are so happy to have him on board.  But I’m thinking of offering to buy his Mom a Camaro.

Marlins:

During the regular season the coaches of the minor league teams try to maintain a balance between attempting to win and placing players at different positions to learn new skills (following the guidelines of the Cal Ripken Little League). However during the playoffs there is more emphasis on trying to win. Just wanted to warn everybody ahead of time.

My first reaction was to respond by asking if Chase should even bother to show up at all for the playoffs.  After all, he batted at the end of the order all season long, never made it out of the outfield except for maybe 2 or 3 innings, and was the first to sit on the bench at each game.  If the coach was moving kids around “according to Cal Ripken”, my kid was not one of them.  We did not complain at all during the year nor, as far as I know, did anyone else.  So I wondered for whom this note was intended.  Maybe it was the delivery but the more it seeped in, the angrier I became.

I took a few deep breaths and called another parent on the team who talked me off the ledge and suggested that I ask whether he meant that the lesser players wouldn’t be playing the more intensive positions or they wouldn’t be playing at all.  So I sent this note:

Coach -

Will this emphasis affect playing time or just positions?

-Emily

 To which he replied in one word:

 Both.

Nice, right?

Now these kids are 9 and 10 years old and at some point in their lives they will learn that they are not the best at everything.  But at what point in their formative years does winning trump nurturing?  Maybe it’s just me, but this guy needs to watch The Bad News Bears a few times and remember what little league is all about.

We could have chosen not to go to the game at all, but that would have been defeating on too many levels.  And I figured at least one of the grownups involved in this situation should set a good example.  We went to the first playoff game and Chase sat out half the game.  He didn’t seem to mind.  Given a choice between sitting on the bench chatting with friends or standing out in the wasteland of far right field covered with gnats, he prefers to sit.   I can’t say I blame him.  His team lost and I was secretly smug that the coach’s strategy failed brilliantly. 

Chase was oblivious to all of this parental angst, which is how it should be.  I readily admit that I hurt for my kid exponentially more than he hurts for himself.  So I said nothing – and will say nothing through the remainder of the playoffs in hopes that we will be done soon enough with this coach who, in trying so hard to win, completely lost touch with what is important.

CHASEY AT THE BAT

Wrapping Paper

Cookie dough

Pizza dough

Daffodils

Bat-a-Thon

Shoot-a-Thon

Relay for Life

This is not a jump rope chant or one family’s shopping and activity list for the weekend.  No.

This is actually a list of ways for schools, sports, and charities to raise money through kids.  The filling out of forms is always involved as well.  Yay.

Sometime between my high school graduation and my first child’s first day of kindergarten, a sea change occurred in American public life.  Children were no longer simply kids.  They were tiny unpaid footsoldiers in massive door-to-door sales and fundraising campaigns. 

Not-so-gamely playing along, raising money for Little League and the elementary PTO, the American Cancer Society and the local basketball program, I’ve tried to avoid having our boys hit up the neighbors too often.  Godparents and grandparents, aunts and uncles are always a soft touch, but you can only go to that well so many times.

So when Bat-a-Thon time rolled around again, we suggested that Malcolm and teammates collect contributions from shoppers at Trader Joe’s.  

At first, too shy to speak up,  they stood quietly and hoped people would magically drop money in their collection cans. 

Quickly, they they learned to make the “ask” and approach people with a couple of steps.  Two of them had coffee cans, the third made a sign that said “Support our Little League.”  Malcolm even tried inhaling helium from the TJ’s balloons so he could hit people up in a Munchkin voice.  And of course, to maximize the cuteness and credibility factor, they wore their uniforms and caps.

The beauty of this system is that nobody HAS to give, and when they do, the amount they give is entirely up to them – unlike Girl Scout cookies, which now cost $73/box.  The boys became better pitchmen, and practiced math skills by counting and divvying up their take.   

They learned a bit about human nature.  Some people will gladly give special amounts like half-dollars and five-dollar-bills, some people know very nice ways to say “no,” and others avoid eye contact and take evasive action.

The results?  Grand slam!  More than $150.  And as a bonus:  no relationships were harmed in the collecting of this money.

As we left for Malcolm’s baseball game at 6 PM, I grabbed a hooded sweatshirt, worrying, “Will this be enough?”  Chris assured me it would.  After all, the air was still balmy.  The car was roasting.  The sun was strong when we arrived.

I knew that before long, I would regret not bringing a blanket or a winter coat….because our Little League compound has a micro-climate that always registers 20 degree chillier than the rest of the county.  It’s like a Bermuda Triangle of atmospheric pressure.  All heat is somehow sucked out of the air.  And it affects ONLY adults. 

All the boys playing baseball in their short-sleeved jerseys are unfazed.  All the little siblings running around in their shorts and flimsy T-shirts, with zero percent body fat, eating water ice?  Not a shiver in sight.  (same syndrome as opening week of the swimming pool).  It’s the parents who freeze.

Case in point,  three mothers of brothers wishing for a bonfire, while their sons play ball with nary a goosebump.

I’m older than Kristen and Jane, shivering with me in this photo, so I speak only for myself when I say “Where’s a good series of hot flashes when you need them?” 

I actually WANT my body to turn instantly into a hormone-powered kiln when I’m at the Little League fields.  But what do I get?  No cooperation.

This past weekend Chase proudly stood at third base for the Minor League Marlins.  The team was short a few players so he was called in from his regular position in right field to get a taste of the action.  Dave usually mans these games and I try to make most of them, but this Saturday there were a number of errands that he had to run, so I was the lone representative of the clan along the foul line.  I sat next to Pete whose two sons play on Chase’s team.  We chatted happily as the action unfolded on the field.

At some point in the middle of the game (please don’t ask me what inning, they all blend together), the second base runner went to steal third.  Our catcher hurled the ball towards Chase for the out and, lo and behold, my kid CAUGHT the throw…though not exactly in his glove.  The ball hit the inside of Chase’s forearm…hard.  He cradled his arms, held on, and tagged the base, but the runner had already arrived.  Safe, but a valiant effort.

“Good play Chasey!”  I yell. “Way to go!”

The play resumed on the field and I watched my sweet third baseman return to his position alongside the bag, tears streaming down his face which, despite his best attempts, had crumpled under the pain of the beaming he just took.  He stood there in ready position choking back sobs.

“Time!”  The third base coach stopped the game and turned to……me.

“Want to see if he is ok?”

I was suddenly perplexed.  And right then and there my maternal instinct strangely ceded its authority to the unwritten rules of Little League which clearly state that THE MOMMY IS NOT ALLOWED TO RUN OUT ON THE FIELD TO TEND TO HER SON UNLESS HE IS UNCONSCIOUS.

I turned to Pete:  “Should I go OUT there?”

He shrugged.  I stood, trying to be as cool as possible.  Do not run.  Do not fuss.  I sauntered over to third like the seasoned manager I will never be am.

“You alright bud?”

Chase nodded.

“Wanna keep playing?”

He nodded again.

“Shake it off, man.  You’re tough.”

Game on.  I returned to my folding chair and swallowed hard.

There’s something to be said for sucking up the pain, wiping away your tears, and staying in the game.   I always knew Chase had it in him.  Now I know I do as well.