Saturday, June 7, 2014

Teeball: Don't Mess With My Son



            For a brief moment this morning it appeared as if my son’s teeball game was not going to be played and my anxiety was tripled by the fact that my parents had driven all the way from Queens, New York – a drive across bridges my dad despises – just to watch their grandson play.  Our game was scheduled for eleven but my parents called at ten after ten informing me that they were already at the field. Not wanting to be late, and expecting the usual traffic they had left the city early this morning.  Knowing that they had arrived and that my son was erupting with excitement to see them, I immediately strapped him into the car and drove over to the field.  The field they were playing at today is not the main field but a satellite field in an adjacent town.  So while three games are usually going on simultaneously at the main fields, there is usually only one game at the field we were playing at today.  My first wave of anxiety occurred when I pulled into the park and found not a soul in sight, save my parents.  A game had been scheduled for ten o’clock but it appeared that the game had been cancelled.  Why?  I had not the slightest idea until I went to get the tee in the equipment shed.  The shed, according to league protocol, is supposed to remain unlocked at all times. HA!  I should have known better than to have expected that to last.  I put my hand on the door knob, but when I tried to turn it, it would not give.  The second wave of anxiety – more intense than the first – nearly knocked me down. The door was locked.  No access to the shed meant no tee.  No tee meant no game.  No game meant my parents had traveled all that way for naught.  Frustration was bubbling inside of me but I wasn’t about to give up – at least not yet.

            In time my team started to arrive, one player at a time trickling onto the field and I started to warm them up with a catch.  As we baked in the hot son, I prayed that someone would have a tee.  When the coach of the other team arrived, I explain the predicament to him.  He then passed on the information to another coach who, luckily, owned a tee and lived just down the road. He went home to get it.  I breathed a huge sigh of relief.  The game would be delayed, but at least it would get played and my son’s grandparents would be able to watch him play. Their trip to New Jersey had not been in vain.  

            My son, having arrived early, had hoped that he would get to practice hitting off the tee before everyone else showed up.  No tee meant that he could not practice hitting.  No hitting meant that he was super sulky to the point where he initially did not even want to participate in the warm up.   My mom, determined to get him onto the field and participating, bribed him as only a grandmother can.  She promised him that if he got out there and played - the whole game - she would take him out for ice-cream after the game.  My son will generally do anything for sugar, especially ice-cream.  

            Willing to get on the field, but still a bit sulky my son stood apart from the rest of his team while, finally, participating in the warm up.  At that point, one of the older boys started laughing at my son because of where he was standing.  This only enraged my son further.  He yelled at the boy to stop laughing, but the boy laughed again.  In a calm but stern voice, I advised the boy that if he wanted to play the game, he needed to quit laughing and upsetting my kid.  I’m not about to stand by and let one kid get picked on, especially my own son.  The kid stopped laughing, but my son marked him with a stare, a stare I know well, one that that clearly stated, “Don’t mess with me again.”

            As usual, my assistant coach did not show up, nor did his son.  The only girl on the team was also a no show.  So instead of seven kids I had five, which was great.  Five – in my opinion – is the perfect number for teeball.   Fewer kids means a quicker game, it also means less chaos on the field.  And when there is only one coach – one adult and one set of eyes – on the field with the kids, less chaos means less of a headache.  Five, however, was rapidly reduced to four when one of the boys refused to play since his mother had forgotten to bring his glove.  One of the other boys offered to let him borrow his extra glove but the kid wanted no part of it.  It was his glove or no glove, and so his mother took him home.  Forcing him to play would have been cruel.  Teeball is supposed to be fun and if he was incapable of having fun without his own glove then there was no point in staying.  And four is still a good number.   It means that if rotated properly, all the kids will have a chance to see some action in the field.

            I promised my son that he could start off at first base. I’m not really sure why he likes it so much since he has yet to catch anything that is thrown to him, but I suppose he wants to be where the ball is, which is encouraging.  His quirk of the day was that half the time, instead of throwing the ball home after chasing it down, he ran home with it clutched in his hand and he gently placed it on the tee.  He then turned around and enthusiastically sprinted – or what qualifies as a sprint for him – back to first.  

            In the second inning, he was playing on the pitcher’s mound and when a ball was hit in his direction I screamed that it was his.  (After each ball is hit, I try to call the name of the player who should field it so as to avoid everyone converging on the ball.)  However, the kid who had been laughing at him previously, did not listen and he sprinted towards the ball.  Since he is faster than my son, he got to the ball at the same time.  Being a little more aggressive, he grabbed the ball and threw it to first.  Devastated and angry that the play had been stolen from him, my son collapsed in a pile of tears.  I walked over to him and gave him an encouraging hug, explaining that I understood why he was upset but that if he didn’t get back to his position he’d miss out on making another play.  Well, as luck would have it, another ball was hit to my son, and the same boy – ignoring me for a second time – chased after the ball and fell on top of my son.  Words were exchanged, words could not discern and while my son clutched the ball in his hand he refused to throw it, afraid perhaps that if he let go of it the other kid would somehow gain possession of it.  Anyway, after that the other kid did not want to play anymore.  His father forced him to hit one more time and made him stand in the field but he had no desire to participate and before the game ended he left.  I would love to know what my son said, but he refuses to tell me.  I guess the lesson learned is, don’t mess with my son. 

            Anyway, with only three kids really participating in the final inning, my son had a blast.  Fate, as if to compensate for the earlier plays, ensured that most of the kids hit the ball towards my son.  Most of the balls got passed him but he did not give up on them.  Looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was on his heals, he ran after each ball, picked it up and threw it to first.  After each play he looked at me and said, “I got two catches.”  “I got three catches.”  And in that way he tallied up the amount of plays he made, grinning more after each one.

            The second time my son was up at bat he hit the ball more powerfully than he has all season.  The ball flew off the tee, but after a few running steps he stopped and said something I couldn’t understand.  So I jogged over to him.  “Run with me,” he implored me and I did, accompanying him to first base.  Later that inning, while he was standing on third, I announced that it was the last batter and that once the batter hit the ball they should run home.  My son didn’t want to wait and so he started running home immediately.  I told him to turn back and after a moment of confusion he did.  

            For my son, I do believe, the highlight of the game was heading out for ice-cream after sizzling in the sun for over an hour.
            


                                               Pictures were all taken by Gary Jaeger, Sr.







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