I love my boys. I really, really do. But dear LORD I hate baseball. I mean of all the sports that I am forced to endure baseball is the most difficult team event for which I am required to feign interest. Oh they’re cute enough when they’re in t-ball and everyone on the team runs from any position on the field to get to the ball; I’ll admit to a smile when my 6 year old got so tired of the 3d baseman missing the ball that he started running the ball over to him to ensure the out at third, but honestly…this is a game where a “no hitter” leaves everyone cheering. I mean ABSOLUTELY NOTHING happens and it makes headlines the next day. Now remember-I have 4 boys so this is about my 83d season of t-ball. Then we graduate to the rookie league where the kids are so afraid of the pitching machine that half of them have to leave the field after they bat to use the restroom. I’ve seen kids walk up to the plate crying, stand at the plate crying and leave the plate crying because in their 8 year old eyes that ball is seemingly coming right at them at what I suspect they perceive to be 158 miles per hour. And of course we parents sit there smiling and cooing “it’s okay Reginald, it won’t hit you”. The kid KNOWS it can hit him–THAT’S why he’s scared. My second born is in the minors so that means I get to sit there for 2 hours and watch the poor pitcher (who’s parents are out there sweating it too) do his best just to reach the plate much less throw in the strike zone. How much pressure can one kid take. Of course the kids in the field have ALSO been standing there watching the pitcher throw ball after ball. After 32 minutes of this, they’re kickin’ the dirt, watching the birds, picking any pickable part of their bodies and some of the more excited parents are hollering at them “pay attention…this one’s coming your way”. Um yeah right dad. In the old days (back when I was a kid-hahahaha) a couple of friends would pull you out to the back lot of Two-Guys department stores and they’d all teach the game to each other. If you messed up; you got punched. If you didn’t, you got punched. It’s just the way it went. But you did learn the game. Now with all the adults involved we treat them like they’re already at Fenway. You know I actually saw a dad being escorted by a county sheriff off the fields once…AND IT WAS A T-BALL GAME. Now is that a tiny bit of bad judgement? I’m not saying it’s bad for us parents to be involved but man o man. So here’s the deal, if your son wants to play ball mom, be prepared. The games get longer, the practices get longer and instead of growing up to be a professional baseball player he’s more likely to make his living farming. At least that’ll be a little more exciting to watch.