The Sultan of Swat
"Oh, and mom? The baseball game has been changed to 11:00," my son said last night. He's been talking about a pick up baseball game now for about a week. "At the baseball field by Lincoln High. I think my bat is in the closet. I need to find it before tomorrow."
"Who's going to be there?" I ask again.
He tells me a couple of friends names who have invited other friends and he wonders if they will have two full teams and he tells me they are playing 18 innings, so could I please pack him a lunch?
I feel like the Meanest Mom in the World as I gently probe the reality of a bunch of third graders playing baseball in Nebraska in January in 2008.
My son's favorite movie right now is "Sandlot" which is about a group of boys who play baseball together every day. The story line involves a baseball signed by Babe Ruth. ("The Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, The Colossus of Clout..." my son recites.) He is obsessed with baseball and more specifically obsessed with historical baseball. He knows all about Murderers Row and the Black Sox Scandal. ("What does 'Say it Ain't So, Joe,' mean, Mom?")
We joke at dinner about making a time machine to go back in time to get Babe Ruth's autograph on a baseball.
"And if I take the digital camera with us in the Time Machine and take a photograph of Frank and Babe Ruth, will it turn out when we get back to the present time?"
"Oh yes," Bill says with a confident smile.
We all laugh.
I was not laughing this morning as my loving, trusting son reminded me of his baseball game at 11 and made me promise to get back from my run in time to take him. I was not laughing as we drove to the baseball fields. In my head I prayed desperately that his other friends would show up. If not two full teams, then a few boys to play catch with and hit balls to. One boy. Surely one other mom can't break her son's heart and she will drive to the baseball field.
But there was no one when we got to the baseball field.
"Can we wait, mom? Can I wait over by the field?"
"Hon, it's 11 and there's no one here. We can wait a few minutes, but why don't you wait in the car."
He was sad and resigned at 11:05.
"I'm sorry, kiddo."
He shrugged and looked out the window.
"Next summer I think we'll do Little League instead of YMCA baseball. You'll have more practices and games."
He nodded. We went home and he called his friend, who didn't mention the baseball game at all. They made plans to ride bikes. His parents are walking on the bike path and they'll supervise.
Because kids don't just go outside and play anymore. Kids don't make plans to play baseball or meet at the park. Moms and Dads set that up and plan it and supervise it. Even baseball is organized and scheduled and supervised.
If I had a Time Machine I could go back in time and get a Babe Ruth baseball. ("We could give him a $100 and he would laugh and sign the ball and go buy 100 cigars.") You know what I would really do if I could go back in time? I would take my son back in time so that he could actually go play a game of baseball on a Saturday afternoon with other kids. With no grown ups. Except moms to pack lunches. 'Cause they're playing 18 innings.
"Who's going to be there?" I ask again.
He tells me a couple of friends names who have invited other friends and he wonders if they will have two full teams and he tells me they are playing 18 innings, so could I please pack him a lunch?
I feel like the Meanest Mom in the World as I gently probe the reality of a bunch of third graders playing baseball in Nebraska in January in 2008.
My son's favorite movie right now is "Sandlot" which is about a group of boys who play baseball together every day. The story line involves a baseball signed by Babe Ruth. ("The Bambino, The Sultan of Swat, The Colossus of Clout..." my son recites.) He is obsessed with baseball and more specifically obsessed with historical baseball. He knows all about Murderers Row and the Black Sox Scandal. ("What does 'Say it Ain't So, Joe,' mean, Mom?")
We joke at dinner about making a time machine to go back in time to get Babe Ruth's autograph on a baseball.
"And if I take the digital camera with us in the Time Machine and take a photograph of Frank and Babe Ruth, will it turn out when we get back to the present time?"
"Oh yes," Bill says with a confident smile.
We all laugh.
I was not laughing this morning as my loving, trusting son reminded me of his baseball game at 11 and made me promise to get back from my run in time to take him. I was not laughing as we drove to the baseball fields. In my head I prayed desperately that his other friends would show up. If not two full teams, then a few boys to play catch with and hit balls to. One boy. Surely one other mom can't break her son's heart and she will drive to the baseball field.
But there was no one when we got to the baseball field.
"Can we wait, mom? Can I wait over by the field?"
"Hon, it's 11 and there's no one here. We can wait a few minutes, but why don't you wait in the car."
He was sad and resigned at 11:05.
"I'm sorry, kiddo."
He shrugged and looked out the window.
"Next summer I think we'll do Little League instead of YMCA baseball. You'll have more practices and games."
He nodded. We went home and he called his friend, who didn't mention the baseball game at all. They made plans to ride bikes. His parents are walking on the bike path and they'll supervise.
Because kids don't just go outside and play anymore. Kids don't make plans to play baseball or meet at the park. Moms and Dads set that up and plan it and supervise it. Even baseball is organized and scheduled and supervised.
If I had a Time Machine I could go back in time and get a Babe Ruth baseball. ("We could give him a $100 and he would laugh and sign the ball and go buy 100 cigars.") You know what I would really do if I could go back in time? I would take my son back in time so that he could actually go play a game of baseball on a Saturday afternoon with other kids. With no grown ups. Except moms to pack lunches. 'Cause they're playing 18 innings.
posted by Lea at 10:15 AM
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