- my iParenting
- quick clicks
- preteenagers today articles
- preteenagers today q&a
- teenagers today articles
- teenagers today q&a
- message boards
- research baby names
- prepare a birth plan
- content channels
- ip channel rss feeds
- read birth stories
- read parenting stories
- recommended books
- e-newsletters
- safety recalls
- ip diaries
- ip store
- mom of the month
- dad of the month
- editor's letter
- letters to the editor
 |
- e-newsletters
- Sign up to receive our free weekly e-newsletters
- award-winning products
The iParenting Media Awards program helps parents find the best products for their families.
Batter up, Kids and Baseball
One Mom's Little League Experience
By Emily Mendell
My son Noah was called up to the Big Show this year. No scouts. No try outs. All he had to do was turn 9 years old, which he did in October, making him ineligible for the younger Rookie League. It was time to move up to Minor League. The big time. He was thrilled because he now got to wear real baseball socks. As for me? My heart began a slow climb up my chest and into my throat where it has remained for the last several weeks.
You see, I loved Rookie League. It was still nurturing with just the right amount of action. Rookie League was a welcome oasis from t-ball, which was adorable for about the first two innings of the season but then dragged on like a merry-go-round that wouldn't stop. For a mom who always cries at the end of The Bad News Bears, Rookie League was exactly what baseball should be. Every kid gets to play every position – each one coveting the day when they can wear the catcher's gear. There is a pitching machine that only throws strikes, and by the way, you get five – not three – before you are called out. We cheer our kids as they forget to run, throw to the wrong base or do the "I gotta pee-pee" dance out in left field. There is a snack schedule.
But the Minors? This is, pardon the expression, a whole new ball game. By Minor League, the weaker players have mostly dropped out. So while my son was middle of the pack in Rookie League, we suddenly find ourselves lacking the prowess and knowledge shared by the other kids. In other words, we are at the end of the batting order and inevitably play the outfield.
These 9- and 10-year-olds are talented! They can pitch strikes. They steal bases. They can catch pop-flies. Everyone hits. It is no longer fun to be the catcher; it's downright scary. What were we thinking throwing our kid into this mix?
He said he wanted to play.
So I attend each game with 50 percent trepidation and 50 percent prayer. I watch as the boys warm up in the field, throwing balls to one another. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! My son's glove doesn't make that noise. In fact, he catches about one out of every five balls. I suddenly and inexplicably hate my husband for not drilling him on how to catch a ball so that it makes the thwack noise. Then, Noah takes a rebound off his glove right to the nose – for the third time this season. I watch the tears come to his eyes as he tries to shake it off. I see him mouth the words "I'm OK" to himself. He keeps playing. My heart hurts. I want to cry, too.
