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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