Posts Tagged ‘teeball’

   The shortish minion has been telling me for 2 years now, quite insistently, that he is big enough to play baseball. Well, this year it finally happened! By the time Little League Season rolled around, he was 28 pounds of 4 year old All-Star just waiting to happen…he was FINALLY big enough.

   The shortest little guy out there, he strutted out there for Opening Ceremonies with his chest puffed out, his hat on crooked, and his knee-length team shirt tucked into his big-boy baseball pants. He proudly stood for all the right moments, and led his team out onto the field when they announced the littlest Patriots’ names.

   Head held high, he sat through the rest of the team’s being introduced, then RAN as fast as he could for the gate that led back to Momma. He wanted his jacket, he wanted a drink, and he wanted some chicken.

   We went to DQ to kill the hour between the Ceremonies and his FIRST GAME EVER.

   While there, I asked if he was ready. He looked at me blankly for a moment, then said “Momma we already DID go do T-Ball.”

   Apparently he thought all the practice, the uniform, and all the other baseball hoopla was in preparation for that one walk across the field with his team. He was done. He came, he waved, he conquered. I had to convince him that there was more to it than that easy-peasy stroll.

   Once we got to the field, his excitement returned and he puffed out his chest, donned his too-big crooked hat, and took to the field.

   When the little Patriots took to the field for the first time, the shortish minion marched himself out onto the field, straight to the pitcher’s mound. There, he set his feet, readied his glove, and glared a challenge at the pitcher…a first grader who looked at him like a stray cat that had wandered up.

   The coach convinced him to go to the outfield, where he danced the rest of the game.

   In between the dancing in the outfield, there was the best part…the part with the bat. They put a too-big helmet on his tiny head (really, they think these will actually help prevent an injury in a game where the kids don’t even get pitched to?) and sent him on his way. My little leftie lined up his feet, hefted his bat, SWUNG with all his might, and sent the ball sailing towards the pitcher.

   That’s when my little All-Star dropped the bat and took off running with all his might…after the ball.

   He raced the pitcher for that ball with coaches and fans trying to figure out whether they were laughing or yelling instructions at him. The pitcher was a bigger boy and sent the shortish one off in the right direction, too stunned to tag him. He recovered and tossed the ball to the first baseman, who ran after my child, who was running with glee, giant helmet bobbing around on his head. He looked like a Bobble-Head doll for someone’s dashboard.

   His next turn at bat, he raced the pitcher for the ball again, and finally figured out what to do on the third chance.

   That third time turned out to be the charm. He took off for first, high-fived his coach, and listened patiently to the instructions to run to second. He nodded understanding, the coach turned his attention to the batter, and my son took off running for his life towards second. He almost stole his first base…he’d missed the little detail about waiting for the batter.

   When he finally got to run for second for real, he encountered a first-grader determined to tag him. They crashed, went end over end, and my son promptly quit the game.

   I’ve talked him into trying again for the next game, after promising that baseball isn’t normally a tackle sport, and letting him speculate that Batman would have beaten up that bigger boy.

  

It’s that time of year again. The time the tallish minion shows up waving around the much-anticipated Little League form. Time to bust out the Barbie bat and pink glove, locate a handful of the 137 practice balls that are floating around here somewhere, and get our big girl panties on…because “there’s NO CRYING in baseball.”
That’s my mantra through March and April every year…and by May, I give up because I’m usually crying by then, too. The minion thinks that baseball is the greatest sport ever for the first few practices and about the 3rd game. Then, someone gets stung by a bee, sunburns, or gets sore and tired of running, and suddenly it’s all my fault for signing her up for baseball yet again.
THIS YEAR though, it’s going to be a whole new ballgame. Pun intended.
The smallish minion has been telling me for two years that “Momma, I big enough to play batheball.”
This year, he is finally big enough for real. And a hand-me-down Barbie bat just ain’t gonna cut it. So, I am in search of a Batman bat, which I am pretty sure they don’t make, and a smaller than extra-small glove, because the smallish minion is tiny.
He also wants real baseball pants, which I am pretty sure don’t come in toddler sizes; and cleats, which I am pretty sure would land someone in the emergency room somehow. He has allowed that in the absence of cleats, his new (smooth-bottomed) cowboy boots shall work nicely.
I’m not sure who his coach will be this year, but I hope it’s someone with the patience of a saint. I coached the last two years…and I am now braving the world of single-parenting with an extra job and an EMT class. So when I was asked to coach again, I laughed and laughed. Then I ran.
So, whoever tackles the role that resembles herding Patriot-clad cats has my respect, and my sympathy. I guess I should warn them that my son is a leftie…
BW Set 5