The Umpire
Kids love to play games. And I have found that they will play pretty much anything you lay in front of them, especially if you play with them. At our house, unavoidably but unanimously, the favored game is baseball.
When our first son was born, I was still working as a principal. His due date was the week prior to our school’s fall break, but when it was time for fall to break and my water hadn’t, it seemed far too convenient and too far past time for that baby to arrive. The doctor felt it was safe to induce, so that’s what we did. It wasn’t until I spoke to my Uncle Max some time later that I learned the day we had chosen to give birth to our little slugger was also the birthday of Mickey Mantle.
Seventeen months later, thanks to a God with a great sense of humor, we were blessed with our second little ball player destined for pinstripes, who we gave the middle name Berra, after the one and only. Clearly, the drugs had not worn off, and it was only two weeks til opening day, and hey, God isn’t the only one with a sense of humor.
So there we had them: Mickey and Yogi. And now that they are a little older you can bet they love to play ball. The interesting thing about watching toddlers play ball: they do it just like adults. Their coordination may not be fully developed; they may not be able to correctly articulate the names of all the positions, but they know their roles. And they very seldom change.
I’m not sure how he made his lineup or what made him decide who was to play which position. I assume he connected pieces of various conversations he has overheard throughout his lifetime because of the strangely appropriateness of each person’s role. However he did it, you can bet “Mickey” is in charge when it comes to yard ball at our house. He has deemed himself “all-time hitter”, and he doesn’t like to share his bat. Dad is the pitcher, Yogi is the catcher (of course), and I—well, I am the “humpfire”.
Random objects are instantly transformed into a prized collection of hand-carved Louisville Sluggers: from a toy cattle trailer to an empty ice cream bucket, if it can be swung through the air, it can be used as a bat. Tennis shoes and blue jeans are scrubbed and mended from practicing the perfect slide. Hours and hours are spent playing catch in the yard—or in the middle of the living room—and that’s ok, because baseball is about teamwork. What better lesson could a couple of kids begin learning? They’ve got a lifetime of it in front of them.
Yes, life at our house is like the game of baseball: lots of cuts, pitching that is right down the middle, and even a few strike outs now and then. We each have our own position to play and—at least for now—I’m the “humpfire”.
And that’s “All in a day’s work”.
Kids love to play games. And I have found that they will play pretty much anything you lay in front of them, especially if you play with them. At our house, unavoidably but unanimously, the favored game is baseball.
When our first son was born, I was still working as a principal. His due date was the week prior to our school’s fall break, but when it was time for fall to break and my water hadn’t, it seemed far too convenient and too far past time for that baby to arrive. The doctor felt it was safe to induce, so that’s what we did. It wasn’t until I spoke to my Uncle Max some time later that I learned the day we had chosen to give birth to our little slugger was also the birthday of Mickey Mantle.
Seventeen months later, thanks to a God with a great sense of humor, we were blessed with our second little ball player destined for pinstripes, who we gave the middle name Berra, after the one and only. Clearly, the drugs had not worn off, and it was only two weeks til opening day, and hey, God isn’t the only one with a sense of humor.
So there we had them: Mickey and Yogi. And now that they are a little older you can bet they love to play ball. The interesting thing about watching toddlers play ball: they do it just like adults. Their coordination may not be fully developed; they may not be able to correctly articulate the names of all the positions, but they know their roles. And they very seldom change.
I’m not sure how he made his lineup or what made him decide who was to play which position. I assume he connected pieces of various conversations he has overheard throughout his lifetime because of the strangely appropriateness of each person’s role. However he did it, you can bet “Mickey” is in charge when it comes to yard ball at our house. He has deemed himself “all-time hitter”, and he doesn’t like to share his bat. Dad is the pitcher, Yogi is the catcher (of course), and I—well, I am the “humpfire”.
Random objects are instantly transformed into a prized collection of hand-carved Louisville Sluggers: from a toy cattle trailer to an empty ice cream bucket, if it can be swung through the air, it can be used as a bat. Tennis shoes and blue jeans are scrubbed and mended from practicing the perfect slide. Hours and hours are spent playing catch in the yard—or in the middle of the living room—and that’s ok, because baseball is about teamwork. What better lesson could a couple of kids begin learning? They’ve got a lifetime of it in front of them.
Yes, life at our house is like the game of baseball: lots of cuts, pitching that is right down the middle, and even a few strike outs now and then. We each have our own position to play and—at least for now—I’m the “humpfire”.
And that’s “All in a day’s work”.
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