Hi Mom!

In T-Ball and Coach Pitch Baseball it's very hard not to nod off, or read a good book, even if you just look up here and there you still won't miss anything. Boring doesn't even begin to describe it. So when my oldest punk said he wanted to play baseball this year, I immediately yawned, until I realized he was serious. Oh boy not another four months of that.

But I signed him up for Little League, the minors, sent him out to practice and "we" realized that they play real baseball and it's kind of exciting. So we purchase him new sliding shorts, since they have to slide in the minors, new practice pants and new game pants. He's grown so much in the last year his others were up to his knees and no they weren't suppose to be. A new helmet, glove, one for the little punk so he can play catch too, and a new bat. It was so cheap to let him play baseball this year, I think I'll sign him up for hockey and Lacrosse too. I mean what else could we need. Oh yeah, a new bag too. Can't forget we have to carry all that to the field.

Next we set out and practice and practice and finally the first game comes, we can't arrive anymore two minutes before the game starts and run onto the field ready to play, we have to arrive 45 minutes early, warm up, set up on the field, practice some, then come off the field, practice some more, then they start the game. Moms in the stands, Dad's in the dugout, little brother punks running around the playground, playing with all his other little brother punk friends, eating hot dogs, candy, popcorn, it's just like a major league game. The boys go up to bat, serious, this is big business now, a few practice swings, ready, almost, let me just check out where my mom is, he's just needs a little reassurance. Mom says, "Let's go Buddy!"

Others yell out his name, okay, now he's ready, wait for it, wait for it, swing at it, wait for it, swing at it, wait for it, swing at it, darn, I can't have fifty more tries until I hit, you mean I really struck out. He starts to head for the dug out, one more reassuring glance to mom, mom smiles, it's okay baby, clearing throat, I mean you'll get em next time Buddy. All dads in the dugout glare at us as we talk to our babies, "no talking to the kids as they play."

As the sun goes down and the lights come on, each player that comes up, checks for that mom in the stand. Some wave, some just look like the deer in the headlights. But we're all there, cheering for them win or lose. "You can do it, Baby," I mean, "You can do it big boy." Dad says, "we said no talking to the boys when they play." Okay, but when they look at us with those scared excited little looks, we're going to tell them "it's okay Baby, we're here for you."

So Dads, take your butts back to the dugout, they're only eight and they don't pay our mortgage yet.