What BASEBALL Means to Us: Dirty Birds, Among Other Things

Yes, baseball means a lot of different things to me and my crew.

First of all, it means (and I’ve covered this one before) red dirt and grass stains on white pants because guess what a baseball diamond consists of?  Red dirt and grass.  And guess where your son (or daughter) will be most of the time?  Yes, in the dirt and grass.

It means that Big D is the assistant coach this year.  It means that you will see him less and less, that he will hibernate on baseball coaching sites, and that packages from UPS will be delivered almost daily to your doorstep containing practice tees and other coaching paraphernalia.  It means that you can’t call his cell phone while he’s at a practice because he won’t answer you, of if he does, he will have no idea what you’re saying to him.  It means that Dirty Harry is thrilled to have his dad as a coach.  It means that I’m extremely proud of him for sacrificing his time and energy to fill the gap…but that I still wish he’d pick up that darn phone!

It will mean that your teenage daughter just got a lot more bored.  She will need endless change and dollar bills for infinite trips to the concession stand.  She will need to have her cell phone charged so she can make lots of phone calls to her friends.  She will ask you about ten times in an hour and half if the game is almost over.  She will be flirted with by her brother’s teammates and friends, which will make you sick to your stomach and willing to comply with her requests to stay home.

It means that your child might pitch.  And subsequently that will mean that I, as a nervous wreck, will bite off all my nails (and I don’t bite my nails).  It means that I will drink a shot of whiskey (and I don’t drink whiskey).  It means that I will go to the parking lot to smoke a cigarette (and I don’t smoke).  It means that I will retreat to my van and eat a whole box of Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls (okay…I’ve been known to eat a few of those).

It means that I have to carry a twenty pound sack of taters on my back.  It means that he will cry and fuss a lot.  It means he will appeal to total strangers in the stands to free him.  It means that he will want ice water and Cheerios on demand.  It means he can’t have it because I’m not made of rubber, and I can’t reach him.  It means he’ll throw a tantrum, banging his head against my back.  It means I take him out of the carrier and hand him over to the bored teenager, killing two birds with one stone.

And speaking of birds, I never would have guessed that baseball would mean that we would have dirty birds.  But it does.  Because Big D and Dirty Harry…those stinkers!…broke my birdbath while playing catch in the backyard.  Dirty Harry threw the ball.  Big D missed it.  And my birdbath, which used to belong to my grandmother, was smashed in the process.

I’m proud of him and his strong arm, but that is ridiculous.

Don’t you just love baseball season?  I do.  I really do.