When the team falls apart

We've been practicing all season. We've played over 30 games, including the long hours and late nights of three different tournaments. We've put in tons of extra time on our own, from the back yard to the batting cages to the middle of the living room. So what's a "coach" to do when the team falls apart? Should I scream and yell or give them the silent treatment? Will they respond to embarrassment? What about a bribe? Maybe I should just turn in my scorebook and look for another profession altogether? If only motherhood was that simple.

Going to the ballpark is usually high on the list of fun things to do at our house. Dad lives it. The boys love it, and I have learned that with just the right toys and a little bit of dirt, I can enjoy a game or two myself.

It used to be a workout, or more appropriately, a nightmare. But the boys are getting bigger and have learned the do’s and don’ts of game time, so things have really started to cruise right along, at least as far as baseball is concerned. So I guess it’s only appropriate that just when I think I have it all figured out, those crazy kids throw me a curve.

As the regular season came to a close last week, and we began to focus on the playoffs, I started to get that old feeling of excitement that always appears this time of year. This is the event for which we have all sacrificed and worked toward all season long. It’s what the game is all about, and we had put in our time, same as the rest. We couldn’t wait to get to the ball park to cheer Daddy on.

When the day finally arrived, the boys and I completed our pregame warm-ups. We went through all of the usual game-day preparations just as we would have during the regular season, so as not to disturb the baseball gods or upset the laws of superstition. Ball suit? Check. Clean diapers? Check. Suitcase full of snacks? Check. Each ritual and pregame procedure was performed without flaw. If something jinxed this day, it certainly wouldn’t be us.

From the start, I should have known that we were up for a challenge when the weather didn’t cooperate. But hey, I figured it is spring baseball, and sometimes it happens that the mother of nature and the gods of the game don’t see eye to eye. So I chalked this one up to “April showers” or “El Nino” or whatever other rainy day game-buster I could think up, and we threw in a blanket and a few extra jackets and were off.

As the rains came down and the winds picked up, it was clear this gray was not going away. What was also clear was that my boys had a case of the jitters that no deep breath, meditation, or tablespoon of Pepto was going to fix. Right from the start, we were running wild like we’d never seen baseball before in our lives. The etiquette in our game was gone.

From leaving the boundaries of the ballpark to running in front of the lawn-chair brigade singing “Take Me out to the Poop Game”, I thought that my children had surely been possessed and that the Curse of the Bambino must have turned on it’s most faithful followers and taken on a whole new form.

After enduring five innings of their pitiful play, I realized that today was just not going to be our day in the sun. My team had failed me, and I, as the coach, had failed my team.

Our months of practice could not have prepared us for an outing like the one we faced that day. No overpowering pitching or senior leadership could possibly have competed with our sleepy-eyed, ornery-tempered opponent. Two terrible toddlers had beaten themselves, and were headed straight for the house. Not, of course before the oldest dropped his pants in the middle of the crowd because he thought he would “just pee pee right here in the grass”. And not before the chorus of fake whining took over the ballpark and had the attention of every umpire, player and fan in the county pleading for our departure.

As I packed up the useless bags of gear, I explained to the boys that we were going home. This is when the real show-stopping began: two kids wailing, snotty-noses running, jelly-legs going into effect. As I attempted to drag them home, I got a half a laugh from one of the dads and a “Man, you must have really been an ornery little kid” from another, and before I could get out of sight, I had given four arm jerks, 10 “just you wait’s” under my teeth-clenched breath, and finally a full out, turn-em-over-my-knee whipping. And that was all before reaching the third base coach’s box where Dad looked questioningly at us through the fence as I mouthed, “I’m sorry!” with a weak and defeated smile.

We finally reached the house, and the boys the safety of their beds, before the disappointment of missing the actual game set in. I had been so disgusted with my kids’ behavior that I had been forced to forfeit sharing in the real victory of the day.

But as in baseball, so it is in life. Some days when my team takes the field, we follow the game plan to the letter. Sometimes we play way over our heads, and some days…we fall apart. My softball coach used to tell us, “Every time you go out, you have the chance to be the hero or the goat,” and the same is true in parenting. At least I know we’ll get another shot.

So on day’s like this game day…when the wind is whipping and the team falls apart…I guess there’s nothing for a coach to do but stick to the game plan…and pray for rain.

And that’s All in a day’s work!