My Aunt Polly died in December. We miss her.
When she was eating chips or cheetos or pretzels, and she was finished for a while (cause with a group the size of our family, we never stop eating for very long), she'd fold the bag over. Just once.
That is so cool.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Sigh…I love baseball. .
This article brought back fond memories of my now eleven-year-old’s tee-ball league. http://www.sportsonearth.com/article/45045154/
My son was born with baseball skills. He could pitch on target at the age of three. People used to pull over on the side of the road to watch him pitch to his grandpa; he’d be at it for hours at a time. At age four we moved to a new neighborhood and a stranger pulled into our driveway one day to ask if George was going to play ball. I knew nothing about the ball league, and the kind stranger (a coach) assured me that even though the deadline for signing up had long since passed, I should contact the village office right away. …and be sure to give his name as The Coach.
All this to say that I was SHOCKED at our first tee-ball practice. But not as shocked as my son was. There he was wearing his well-worn mitt in the infield, down in his stance waiting for the first batter to hit the ball.
The batter hit the ball, all right. And it went about five feet.
But what left George and I dumbstruck was that ALL the rest of the team, despite some were playing in the outfield, RAN to get the ball at the same time. At the same time!! (They literally looked like chickens at feeding time. Years later, that is still how I refer to the peewee league.)
And to rub salt in the wound—they didn’t keep score!!! And they were allowed like TEN STRIKES.
It was more than we could comprehend. There I was sitting in the stands with a score book, and all the other parents were just there to encourage the fun. Craziness!!!
Throughout the season George would ask me through the fence for the score, and when I responded honestly the other parents would give me “that look.” But I didn’t care. Their kids were squatted in right field digging for worms and tossing dirt in the air. My son was not allowed to play in the dirt—and never wanted to. Our motto was always, “If the Tigers can’t do it on the field or in the dugout, neither will we.”
Last year George was drafted by an unknown team, full of first-time players. They won only two games. Despite the agony of defeat, it was a good lesson. A very good lesson…for this mom.
But I whisper a prayer every now and then that the call I get about this year’s draft is from a familiar voice.