My life is currently consumed by balls.
My 7 year old son is obsessed with all things baseball. So, when his absent-minded mom missed the deadline for flag football sign-ups in the fall, we fell back on the sport that he has been wanting to play for a while now and that we had planned to sign him up for this spring. Baseball.
The fall baseball was a deceptive tease of what was to come in the spring. One practice and one game a week. No biggie, right? I mean, the coach was a little overzealous and all (scheduling a parent v. child scrimmage on a weeknight when I had just come from court and expecting me to play . . . in heels. Um, no), but it was fine.
Then came the spring. And we moved up to two games a week with one practice. That’s a lot, and even necessitated the hubs to move around his normal Monday/Tuesday travelling schedule, but we’ve made it work.
But then . . . oh ho then. His coach suggested that he might just be good enough to try out for a travel league for the fall, consisting of 7 year olds that were good enough to play against 8 year olds. I was against this. First, it is expensive. Second, it is called a travel league, which means that we would be driving all over creation for these damn things. Third, it was time to sign my youngest up for some type of actual sport, adding to the sports obligation schedule. And fourth, 7 wanted to do football in the fall.
But my husband convinced me that he would take the brunt of the travelling part and my son decided that he would rather play baseball after all, so I conceded. And he tried out. And only after the try-outs did I get an email from his coach which explained that he was actually trying out for a 6 week summer scrimmage schedule with 3 game tournaments during the weekends and multiple practices during the week. And then the travel team during the fall.
Wait . . . what now?
Based on this current turn of escalated events, I can only imagine the list of requirements that will be outlined by his coach in future emails:
– Must wear full uniform at all times, including to bed, so that the baseball experience will seep into your pores, absorbing knowledge by osmosis (this includes glove, batting helmet and cup).
– Must legally change name to either Cal, Brooks or Boog. Can keep current last name . . . for now.
– May only speak in baseball language. i.e. “hey batter batter” and hand gestures depicting a runner’s ability to steal a base.
– Renounce all of your possessions except for those relating to baseball.
– Daily morning and evening prayer rituals with your head always facing in the direction of Cooperstown.
– A diet consisting only of hot dogs, peanuts and crackerjacks.
– Weekly pilgrimage to Camden Yards at Oriole Park to bask in the aura of the baseball stadium.
– 25-30 practice pitches into a bucket every night. (This one’s real, sadly).
Not to mention a holiday weekend that had no games scheduled, initially, so that everyone could enjoy a weekend off . . . from work, from kid’s sports, from running around. But no, we can’t have that. Not when there is baseball to be played! So instead, we got a game at 8:30 am Saturday (and had to be at the field for pre-game practice by 7:45!), and a practice scheduled for Memorial Day. That’s right, while everyone else is traditionally grilling and celebrating their day off (and honoring those who protect and serve), we get to go play baseball. Some more. Again. Ad infinitum.
This entire thing is going to drive me completely and totally batty.
Anything taking over your entire life?