Baseball and Boys

Can I be brutally honest for a minute?

I hate baseball. That's my true confession.

Stop gasping in shock. This isn't some underpinning of un-American sentiment. I love my country. Just not its national pastime so much.

The actual sport is okay. It doesn't get me riled like soccer does, but I actually understand all the rules, which is more than I can admit about football or basketball.

I am not, nor have I ever been, an athletic girl, so maybe that's where my lack of appreciation comes from. As a youngster, I played softball and soccer for several years, and as much as I can remember, I enjoyed them both.

Bruce is also not a poster boy for any sports league. I've heard mention of him playing soccer, baseball, and, later, tennis. He understands sports, but he doesn't live, eat and breathe them. And for that I'll be forever grateful. It's a trait that I'm certain God had in mind just for me when he selected Bruce as my mate.

When Bruce and I were still "just" a couple, but not yet parents, and we lived in the Dallas area, we went to see the Texas Rangers play at Arlington Ballpark. The Rangers lost. From my perspective the best part about the day was spending time with Bruce. The hot dog smell in the stadium was pretty fantastic as well.

And then we had a few kids.

We signed Clay up for t-ball when he was four, because we were stupid and didn't know better with our firstborn. That, and another couple from church with a four-year-old signed up their son. However, while their son had a genuine interest in the game, ours had a genuine interest in kicking the dirt on the field.

It was a couple more years before we signed Clay up once more, thinking he was older and might show a greater appreciation for the sport. That just didn't happen. More dirt kicking happened.

Bruce and I don't care what sports our kids play or opt out of playing. We have two simple goals. First, that our kids maintain a decent level of fitness. Second, that they are exposed to each sport enough to have a rudimentary understanding of the rules of play. This is mostly so they don't sit in Neyland Stadium one day, watching a UT game, and act like their Momma, who waits to see when everyone else in the section cheers before hopping up and joining along. (A touchdown is about all I understand, but what leads up to one is a complete mystery to me.)

After Clay's second endeavor into the wide world of baseball, I was ready to call a close to that particular chapter of his life. However, Spencer expressed an interest this year for the first time, so when we signed him up, we asked Clay if he wanted to play baseball again.

No, he said. Yippee, we thought.

I changed my mind, he said. Oh crud, we thought.

Spencer's team practices once or twice a week for an hour each time. Clay's coaches are more rabid. His team practices two or three times a week for two hours each time.

I'm not a math person, but in times such as these, I do the math. It helps me keep perspective. If we make every practice for both boys, we'll be at the fields somewhere between five and eight hours a week. Factor in driving time and we're looking at another approximate two and a half hours (round trip). That's ten and a half hours a week.

We spend less time than that each week in church... and we're hitting our church three days a week between both services on Sunday, Financial Peace on Tuesday, and Awanas on Wednesday.

This baseball hype just bugs me. I resent the rush it puts our family in. Clay has barely enough time after school to eat a snack and to finish homework before we head to the fields. I don't like that supper time is constantly worked around practices, and then often done at a local fast food place instead of around our table. By the time we get home and have eaten, it's shower time and off to bed. And Bruce, even more than me, gets the dregs of our children's day.

It may not be baseball so much as the fact that this is the one sport that we do outside of Upwards leagues. In Upwards, practice is for one hour, once a week. Even with three kids, that has been more manageable.

Before yesterday's practice, Clay had his own baseball confession to make: "Mom, I just don't like this sport too much." I later told a friend in an e-mail that I was an idiot for not listening to that inner voice that shouted at me NOT to sign him up.

I longed to pull Clay out, before the games even start. But that's not how we operate in this family. If we shell out the money, our kids play the season through. Who made that stupid rule anyway?! They'll learn perseverance if it kills 'em... or us.

After yesterday's practice, on the way home in the van, I asked Spencer how he liked baseball.

"I love it!" he said, and sounded suspiciously like Tony the Tiger when he says of Frosted Flakes "They're grrrrrrreat!"

Fine, I thought, so he likes it. Big deal. Surely I can plant the seed to downplay it so that he won't want to play after this year.

"Well, what do you like better.... soccer or baseball?" I asked.

"Baseball!" He exclaimed, with even more vigor than before.

Whose kid is this? Oh, yeah. He's ours. But he has a big streak of his athletic Uncle Bryan in there that we just can't rub out!

And we wouldn't want to.

In the Fall, Spencer and Clay will play football for the first time. Something about his little brother playing has all of a sudden inspired Clay to get over his fears of being hurt (in flag football!). And then they'll both play basketball, Spencer for the first time.

And Allison?

She just wants to cheer.

Don't get me started. That's a whole different rant for a whole different day.