One of my motherhood dreams has come true: I am officially a baseball mom. I could not be more thrilled.

Annabelle is playing on the Y team and since I’ve become a broken record about our local Y’s performance I won’t go over it again, but suffice to say the team is not stellar. The kids are fine, but the “main coach” routinely comes 40 minutes late. Over half the team doesn’t show up for practices. It’s not an ideal situation but AB has a good time. Very few players have any idea what’s going on so it’s pure chaos. There’s confusion about when/where to run, who to throw the ball to, and which is second base. There are lots of blank stares and shuffling around in the dirt. A few parents are involved and it’s taking us all to have any semblance of order. We’re constantly saying “You have to keep your eyes open” and “It’s not time to steal a base but no one would notice if you did.” “Erik, throw the ball. Erik! Throw the ball! No, this way! To Summer! Third base! That’s first! Erik! THROW THE BALL.” It’s a mess and so much fun to watch. On Saturday they needed a runner so yours truly stepped up to the plate and jogged from home plate to first several times. Had I known I was going to be the MVP of the game I wouldn’t have worn flip-flops, but live and learn. I’ll be more prepared next time. I was reminded of the time several years ago when I played baseball with a AAA team at the children’s hospital summer camp. I’ve always felt that brief interaction makes me a baseball sensation.

(Pregame conversation about loose teeth.)

Last night was their first game and it was possibly the best time I’ve had all year. I love the baggy uniforms. I love hearing the parents yell instructions at their children who are frozen in place because they forgot they were playing a game. I love seeing the smallest player barely hit the ball then charge toward second base like first didn’t even exist. It’s a great time. By some miracle, the entire team was there. Several dads on our team were coaches and they lined the kids up in their batting order. That alone was a production. The numbers on the back of their shirts were not the same as the order they were told to stand in which caused a lot of confusion. A child would be told he was third in the batting order but he’d announce he was #11, not third. Wash, rinse, and repeat for the entire team. The dads then seemingly forgot about the kids while they discussed who would play which position. I don’t know if it’s common knowledge or not, but 4-7-year-olds are not known for their ability to stand in a straight line with no direction for upwards of 20 minutes. I swooped in with all my years of preschool teaching under my belt. I kept them somewhat in line and made up a ball passing game. The main coach asked me if I was going to continue coaching for the entire game but I said no. I was simply the pregame entertainment herding the cats.

Contrary to how it looks, AB did enjoy herself.
I yelled and cheered the whole game. I will continue to do so at every game, even (especially) when AB gets older and I embarrass her. For now, she waves at me from second base and holds my hand when we sit in the dugout.