I sat there freezing my buns off wondering if I would be safe or not. I convinced myself it’s just a Little League game and those rugrats are only eight-years-old. Dangerous would certainly not be the word description I was looking for here.
That is, until a ball flew out of no where and landed right next to my expensive cup of java. Okay that’s it. I decided to move my camp to behind the chain-linked fence.
Reorganized with my bag-o-seeds, shades and shorts with goose bumps to match, I nestled in a folding chair that was closer to the ground than I cared to be. My new friends were ants. From this vantage point it was hard to see my son, number eight, swing, make contact with the ball, then run to first base like I was chasing him down with cough medicine. He must’ve made it since he didn’t come back to the dugout to pull grass with all the other gardeners, I mean players.
It was evident the sugar-coated breakfast I lovingly fed my son was the same all the other kids ate, since the energy level was high enough to make a small explosive. The yells from the parents were aimed at their precious little ones to pay attention, but it was as useless as a screen door on a submarine – isn’t that a song?
I yelled the loudest when my son hit another ball to outfield. I was proud until he started teasing the second baseman, and the two got yelled at from one of the coaches. That’s when he went from ‘my boy’ to ‘his dad’s son.’
“My boy” looked so cute in his purple jersey, spiked black shoes, knee-hi socks that reached his thighs and his white see-through polyester pants revealing his action-figure underwear. It’s no secret where he gets his super-hero strength.
I look at him and I see scholarship. I could do it; I mean he could with encouragement, practice, good grades and good looks. A little cute never hurt anybody. But maybe I don’t want him to be a jock, or maybe he wants to be something else when he grows up – I’ll let him decide. Maybe.
So I sat there, safe behind the fence mapping out my son’s future when all of a sudden a bat flew towards me as if it were a newspaper thrown like the paperboy’s best shot to the wrong house. Bringing me back down to earth and out of my dreamlike zone, I gave the nearest coach a growl. If I can keep from spitting and scratching, then the least he could do is keep the little sluggers from random acts of bat-tossing.
I decided to make conversation with the other moms. They were shocked to find out that the coach was my ex, my son is an alien, and I am a pro-basketball player. The latter two seemed to make sense to them, but they found it hard to believe how a divorced couple could be so civil at a social sporting event.
Call it luck or call it a blessing, either way my son is the one holding the four-leaf clover. Literally, he’s out in left field looking for clovers because the batter thinks the ball on the tee is supposed to stay right where it is.
Honestly, the less strife between his dad and I, the greater the chances our son will hit a grand slam in the future “I” pick out for him!
Charleen Earley is a veteran freelance writer, comedienne and high school journalism teacher. Please visit her website at www.CharleenEarley.com.
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