Monday, June 24, 2013

The Foul Balls of Summer


This photo was taken by Megan Smith, #1 Turks fan
Last week at the Free Friday event Turks' game, well, once it actually got started, I thought I'd ask Leo some questions: one, to keep him engaged, and two, to show him that I actually do know about the game of baseball. I might be a girl, but I'm from Page County. That makes me much more well-rounded than most, and I guess less inhibited about doing it. 

"Honey," I asked him in my sweet Mommy voice, "do you know what a 'ball' is?"

"Mommy, what? Oh my gosh! Are you really asking me that?" Some of the men around us laughed.

"Yes, I am. What's a 'ball'?" I'm sure they didn't think I knew either.

"Mommy, it's the little white round thing the pitcher throws. You really are silly." OK, I guess I asked for that one, which made me really angry...at myself, at the men around me making me feel silly, and my little boy for thinking I had no idea what I was talking about. 

I sighed. "Baby, that isn't the kind of 'ball' I'm talking about. I'm talking about the kind of pitch a batter shouldn't swing at."

"Huh?" Leo asked.

"OK, well, for starters, do you know that batters don't swing at every ball that comes across the plate?" I was using my teacher voice; it sounded calm and professional.

"Well, why the heck not?" he asked, and I should've scolded him for his word choice, but I was too excited at my opportunity to teach him something about baseball, the first and only sport I ever had played in my life.

"Well, because the pitch could be considered either a 'ball' or a 'strike'." I took my time with this and enunciated clearly, probably even said it a bit too loudly so the other men around me could hear.

"But the purpose of the whole game of baseball, Mommy, is to hit the ball and get on base; a batter has to swing at every ball that comes his way. Trust me, I know this."

"Leo, ya know what? You're really starting to hurt my feelings. Why don't you believe me? I really do know what I'm talking about." Then, in true gender fashion, my dad came to my rescue, which, as sweet as it was, made me look like the helpless female, the damsel in distress that needs saving.

In his I-mean-business-voice, he looked at my son and said, "Leo, do you see that man behind the catcher?"

"What's a catcher?" He really didn't know.

"Well, Leo, don't  you know nothin'? The catcher's at guy's squatted down behind the batter, the one wearin' all that 'quipment. See him?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, the guy behind the catcher...he's the umpire. It's his job to call the pitches. The pitch should be thrown right over the plate, not to the left of it or to the right of it, and not too low or not too high." As my dad talked, my mind got distracted, and I thought, Hey, this is the story of Goldilocksbaseball. My dad was still talking: "It's an umpire's job to determine whether a pitch is good, which is called a strike, or bad, which is called a ball."

My son started laughing like he was literally being tickled. "Oh my gosh, that's so funny Granddaddy. This is like Star Wars...The Umpire Strikes Back. Get it? Oh man, I kill myself." I think he spilled some of the popcorn from his bag he was laughing so hard.

"You are one clever dude, Leo. You know that?" I appreciated it, his punny jokes; my dad, on the other hand, does not appreciate a good joke, especially at baseball's expense. He, like everyone else from a small town like Stanley, VA, takes his baseball seriously. And my son? Well, I don't think he's gonna follow in my dad's good ole boy footsteps. His imagination is too active, along with his body, so I'm not sure that he'll ever be too content just sitting and watching a baseball game. 


Thinking about his restlessness took me back in time to a baseball memory. Ya see, on my team, I was an outfielder...a centerfielder to be exact. I remember standing out there with the glove in my hand, just rocking back and forth, not knowing what to do with myself. I walked back and forth from the left fielder to the right fielder just trying to pass the time before we got back in the dug out. 

Well, on one particular day, I really had to pee. I couldn't hold it; I tried so hard, but I just couldn't. So, I just walked right off that field and headed to the Port-o-Potty to pee. When I came back, I kinda wasn't paying attention. And wouldn't ya believe it? 

Just at that point, about 30 seconds into that game since my return, a ball was hit up in the air and was sailing back my way. I didn't have my glove back on. I remember just holding my hands up, like I was praisin' Jesus or somethin'. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground wondering what the hell had happened. Turned out, I caught the ball ...with my nose. Got a good broken nose that day, but that didn't stop me from finishing the game. Never even got it checked out. It hurt like hell; I remember that much. But...I was not about to let that make me look weak. That's what people expect from girls. I didn't even shed a tear.


About that time, a foul ball came out into the stadium near us, I mean really nearby, so I ducked my head and covered my nose. I didn't want a repeat. Well, a little boy close to us caught that ball barehanded. That was the first time I noticed that Leo looked genuinely intrigued. I saw this as yet another opportunity to introduce him to the world of baseball: "Hey, Leo. Do you know what happens if you catch one of those foul balls?" I asked.

"No, what?" he asked, showing excitement. 

"You get to keep it." 

"You do?" 

"Yep. You catch it; it's yours." 

I saw the smile quickly spread across his face."Wow, Mommy. That's cool." I could tell that he had found a goal worth working toward. I was proud. This would be the thing that hooked him.

Then, just like that, a sweet old man sitting in front of us turned around. Honestly, I thought he was gonna tell Leo to keep his legs still. He was kicking the back of the man's seat. Instead, he said, "That's not the way it happens anymore. If ya catch it, ya take it to the concession stand, and they give ya a freeze pop." 

"Oh. Really?" For starters, hearing that a tradition from my childhood was outdated from an 85-year-old man made me feel a thousand years old. However, feeling like I wanted to push him down the bleacher stairs made me feel like a teenager. I wanted to look at him and say, "Thanks Gramps. Just when my son thinks I'm cool, you come along and show him I'm not."

Hearing the old man didn't diminish his enthusiasm, though; Leo turned to me and asked, "Mommy, Mommy, can I go out in the back where all of those other kids are and try to get a foul ball?" 

"Aw, honey, that's cute. I used to do that too. I had a ball collection. Chasing after foul balls back then was like its own contact sport. You have to be the fastest and not afraid to play dirty." Nostaligic moment here.

"OK, I can do that...'cause I really want a freeze pop." 

That was a bittersweet moment for me. I was happy that he wanted to chase foul balls like I used to, but I was sad that his motivation was a freeze pop.  For me, it was just always about the ball, the tradition.
Leo was waiting for some foul ball action.

I let him go and just sit and wait for a foul ball to be hit, so he could chase after it. But none came...until, that is, he had gotten tired of waiting. That's always the way life works out. Ya wait and ya wait...and ya wait for that thing you've been waiting for...the thing that you can wait all your life on, and it never comes. Until ya stop waiting for it, that is. That's when the thing you've been waiting for comes for you...when it's too late.

I was thinking about that life phenomenon on the walk back to the car and realized I hadn't been talking to my son about his first baseball game. So, I decided to ask a question:

"Well, Leo. Do you wanna come back sometime?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Well, first of all, I'm gonna catch one of those foul balls. I will do that this summer. Just wait and see."

"OK," I said. In my head, I wanted to be hopeful, to think that it could happen for him. I didn't want to think about it too much, though. "So, was that your favorite part? The foul balls?" I asked to distract myself.

"Nope."

"Then what was?" I was really hoping he'd say it was spending time with his mommy learning about a sport she played when she was a little girl. He would've said that when he was five, I bet. Maybe he still would?

"The popcorn. I wanna come back and get some more. Oh, and the Skittles! I want those too."

"Oh, but Leo, you can get both of those anywhere."

"But it was all really good here, though."

"Now who's silly?" I said, opening his car door and making sure he was buckled in. "Well, let's go get your sister and see what she's been doing."

"Probably watching a Barbie movie," he said mockingly.

The most ironic detail about the whole night, especially considering my gender issues throughout the game, is that I left my daughter with my mom. Before we left, I told her, "We're having a boys' night."  

"But I wanna go wif you," she  said. "I promise I'll be good."

"But you're a girl, honey. You'll have more fun with Grandma watching Thumbelina," I had told her, and I cringed now at the hypocrisy.  

And with that I realized, I'm just as guilty as the rest of them.

I'm taking them both to the next one.





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