Take Me Out Of The Ballgame…Please!

Fall is a wonderful time of year. It’s when October rolls around and the days start getting a little cooler and a little shorter.

It’s a time when everyone thinks of those things we associate with autumn. Pumpkin patch festivals. Leaves changing into beautiful colors. College football. Even pumpkin spice lattes.

And of course, let’s not forget little girls playing softball tournaments.

As a devoted grandfather, I recently performed my grandparental duties and attended one of my little darlings’ final softball tournaments of the year.

Holy crap.

There were more tents at this place than you’d see on the Quad during Homecoming weekend in Tuscaloosa.

Hundreds of parents, grandparents, siblings, and assorted relatives were camped out in folding chairs, huddled under blankets, and preparing for what appeared to be an upcoming military operation.

The festivities began around 9 a.m. and were scheduled to conclude sometime around 3 a.m. the following morning -  assuming the championship game didn’t go into extra innings.

That would leave just enough time for all the good Christians to catch a couple of hours of sleep before church on Sunday, where they should ask forgiveness for putting their daughters through all of this. 

First, let’s discuss the economics of the girls’ softball tournament. 

Admission was $15 per person. That’s just to get through the gate. Excessive, in my opinion. And just about everyone else’s, too. 

Then there’s another $300 or so at the concession stand, where a hot dog costs roughly the same as a decent steak.

And on a particularly chilly evening like this one, you can easily spend another couple hundred dollars making an emergency run to Dick’s Sporting Goods for blankets, insulated jackets, and possibly a portable electric heater.

Deer hunters don’t have this much equipment.

And to think I did all this to watch my precious granddaughter walk to first base.

That’s it.

Apparently, the young lady pitching for the opposing team had been led to believe the strike zone was approximately eight feet high and six feet wide.

Frankly, I was just grateful my granddaughter was wearing a helmet.

Four straight pitches, and off she trotted.

Meanwhile, the runners ahead of her were advancing around the bases like airline passengers on a moving sidewalk. 

Eventually, the runner on third walked home. Then another. And another.

Mercifully, the umpire invoked the six-run rule that ended the inning and the game. 

I think he just needed to pee.

The tournament director congratulated our team on the  victory and then dropped a bomb on us. We would have to wait another two hours to play our quarterfinal opponent.

That’s when this grandfather and grandmother decided we’d had enough. Fifteen dollars apiece aside, we like to get home before dark nowadays.

Of course, one thing about youth sports that never seems to change is the overzealous parent.

One little girl stepped up to the plate, tapped the dirt off her cleats, took a couple of practice swings, and watched strike one sail past.

Immediately, a softball mother dressed in pink, with a face turning roughly the color of a ripe tomato, began hollering,

“You better not strike out with the bases loaded!”

Now, I’m not a sports psychologist, but I always suspected that a parent  screaming at a little girl is one of the least effective methods of improving her batting average.

I turned toward the woman and offered what I thought was a perfectly reasonable observation.

“You couldn’t possibly want to hit that ball any more than she wants to”

She spun around and snapped, “Oh, yes, I do!”

 I decided that discretion was the better part of not getting my face shredded at a girl’s softball tournament.

Instead, I turned to my wife and asked a question I’m afraid she would answer truthfully.  

“Was I ever that bad when the boys were playing ball?”

There was an uncomfortable silence until she spoke.  

“Yeah. At least that bad.”

Ouch.

I thought back to all those years of Little League baseball, football games, and basketball tournaments. All those questionable calls. All those incompetent referees. All those  volunteer coaches. And all those times I probably embarrassed the daylights out of every one of them.

“On behalf of my younger, stupid, overbearing self, I’m so sorry.”

She laughed. That’s what 35 years of perspective will do for you. But I meant every word of  it.

I just hope that lady in pink figures it out a little sooner than I did.