On July 4th we usually find ourselves in Sentinel. Whether it’s standing parade-side on Main Street with our plastic, candy bags ready for collection or sweating it out at the park before retreating to the coolness of my grandmother’s house, for the better part of 25 years, I’d say I’ve been there more times than not. And now my own family is joining in the tradition.
Up until now, we’ve just been visitors, and for the last four years, visitors with little kids. Kids to chase and corral in a crowded park, to keep from getting pounced under prancing horse hoofs, to avoid concussions at the horseshoe pit.
Our boys faintly remember the parade from last year. They remember the candy and all the cousins being with them. They remember the earth shattering sirens on the emergency vehicles that had them ducking for cover in nervous angst. And that’s about it, after all they were only two and three. But this year was a little different. This year we were locals, and we seemed to be right in the middle of it all.
Being a year older-practically grown-I suppose is one reason (in my sleep deprived state of delirium) that I agreed they could be in the parade this year. At first, it might not sound so absurd-two little boys riding in a parade. But let me rephrase. This year, our boys drove in the parade, or raced might be a better word.
After discovering that Fisher Price and John Deere make child-size, battery-powered toys big enough for kids to actually climb into the driver’s seat and cruise, we have been unstoppable. Not at home, mind you. I can’t keep up with socks and shoes, not to mention a three and four year old with their own set of wheels. But having friends with cool toys is a plus-except possibly if they’re on a parade route with lots of people, loud tractors, huge trucks and large animals. Definitely too much traffic for the inexperienced four year old. Hindsight tells me this now. But at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, it seemed like a good idea.
So there we were, Cooper on a battery powered four-wheeler and Brisco at the helm of a miniature gator. I thought surely they would be ok with dad just feet behind in a man-sized golf cart. And I really had myself convinced until I saw my four year old passing traffic on Main.
I could see from a distance that someone was attempting to pull ahead of the pack. It wasn’t until I heard the family sitting just to the east laughing about the little speed racer that I realized, yep, that’s my kid. I stepped out in front of him, just as he was about to pass the floats, and said, “Cooper! What in the world are you doing way up here?” I could see on his face that my question was enough to almost send him over the edge. He puckered up and started to tear and through his whine I could just make out, “Well Daddy said I could!” Of course.
So I blindly stepped aside to watch my first born nearly take out the children next to us in his attempts to pass every entry in the parade so that he could be the first to cross that finish line.
I turned my attention to Brisco, the three-year old driver I thought I should be worrying about, only to see him playing bumper cars with a little green tractor. It was almost more than I could take, but at least dad was only a few feet away. That really put my mind at ease.
It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized how out of control the whole scenario really was. Comments like, “Cooper would get right up on the back of that bumper and then slam on his brakes.” or “I was gonna jump out of the pickup and stop him if he tried to pass someone on the highway.” And Brisco was caught trying to drive and pick up candy off the road at the same time, although that should come as no surprise to anyone who knows Brisco. It can really make a mother check her sanity after it’s all said and done.
In the end, it was a day filled with new family traditions and unforeseen learning experiences for this naïve mom. 1. Riding kamikaze around a cabin in the country does not qualify one to drive in a parade. 2. Multi-tasking behind the wheel of a moving vehicle is not in the male, Smith genes. 3. We are still too young and “auditorily sensitive” to enjoy the beauty of fireworks.
Of course, there’s always next year.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
A ballgame to remember
Even though we only have one official ball player at our house this summer, we have uniforms for two. Whatever big brother does, Brisco is never far behind, so each game day begins well in advance with the donning of the official Sentinel Red garb right down to the thick, heavy red leggings pulled straight to the top of the thigh. As we prepared to go to the ball field last Tuesday night, I suppose it was a good thing to be found dressed out in full uniform because for Brisco, it would be a ball game to remember.
As our eldest’s game was set to begin, a “scout” approached from the other ball field. Seems the Sentinel White coach pitch team had a few players missing and was looking for a couple of fill-ins. Before considering the consequences, I opened my mouth and said, “Brisco would probably play.”
The scout agreed to let him try, but Brisco wasn’t so sure. He considered it for a moment but declined. I suppose after I told him I’d go over with him, he decided it might not be so bad, so we trekked over to the other ball field and off he went. Like an old pro, with an entourage of six or seven pretty girls to cheer him on.
Now at this particular moment in time, two things were going through my head: 1. He’s gonna last about 10 minutes before walking off the field, declaring “I’m done”; and 2. How am I going to watch two kids play two different ball games at the same time?
The former is a trait that is probably true of most three year olds in general. It just wasn’t an issue for his older brother-ever. At least not where baseball is concerned. But to my surprise, Brisco jumped right out into left field-where he spends most of his time anyway-and had himself a ball.
He fielded several hits and made a few great throws. One time he even threw to one of the coaches standing near third when he saw the runner at second trying to advance. I had to be sure and let him know that in a real game, the grown ups aren’t allowed to play.
The spectacle of the night, at least for his parents, came at the plate. In coach pitch, they’re allowed five pitches. Balls or strikes, it doesn’t matter where they land, five pitches it is. So there he stood, all 35 inches of him, armed at the plate with a bat that’s almost as long as he is tall. He banged the bat on the plate. Dust flew about, and he reared back into his stance. Then came the pitch.
He struck out his first at bat, but the second time up, he just had that look in his eye. That “Brisco” look that only he has. That determination, all-business, get-outa-my-way look that says he’s hittin this ball so you better get ready. He swung at the first two, but let the third pitch go by. Turning to face the backstop-and his mother-he yelled, “That one was too high! It was a ball!” I reminded him he would only get two more pitches, and as he struck at the fourth, I couldn’t help but think to myself how small he looked up there. So small, and yet, (if you ask him) so big!
Here it was-the final pitch. Could the little man do it? The ball came sailing in. He swung, and with all his might, he hit a high fly just behind the infielders at second and short. He dropped that bat and ran to first as fast as his little legs would take him. I was yelling like a moron, and I guess everyone else in the park was doing the same--even the mothers on the other team. And…Yes! He was safe!
I’d like to say I didn’t get all sappy and teary, but any mom who’s ever witnessed one of her kid’s “firsts” knows that it isn’t true. I welled up, like always, with that purest of Mommy pride that only comes when one of my two boys gets it right.
I’d like to say I was most proud of the way he ran through the base at first, as fast as those two stubby legs would take him; or of the fact that when he got thrown out at second, the coach on the other team couldn’t bear to make him go to the dugout; or of the way he took his “giant” lead off second, even though they aren’t allowed to lead off in coach pitch.
But really I’m no different than the most relentless of the Babe Ruth or Hammerin’ Hank fans-I’m a sucker for the long ball. And, so, it seems, is my boy, because as he recounted to his fan club his first official hit, all he had to say was this: “I hit it so high it almost touched the sky!”
I have no idea the kind of fun we are in for or what the future holds for our boys and baseball. They love it like a long lost brother and a big bowl of ice cream all rolled into one. It’s the last thing they think about at night and the first thing they beg to do in the morning. No amount of playing catch in the yard or taking grounders on the field can seem to quench their undying thirst for this game.
So as we took off our cleats and hung up our hat, this night of swinging metal and popping leather came to a close. Tonight, chasing balls and running bases became more than something designed for “Daddy’s boys” or Cooper’s friends. Tonight, the game of baseball came alive for Brisco Berra. For him-and for us-it was definitely a ballgame to remember.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
As our eldest’s game was set to begin, a “scout” approached from the other ball field. Seems the Sentinel White coach pitch team had a few players missing and was looking for a couple of fill-ins. Before considering the consequences, I opened my mouth and said, “Brisco would probably play.”
The scout agreed to let him try, but Brisco wasn’t so sure. He considered it for a moment but declined. I suppose after I told him I’d go over with him, he decided it might not be so bad, so we trekked over to the other ball field and off he went. Like an old pro, with an entourage of six or seven pretty girls to cheer him on.
Now at this particular moment in time, two things were going through my head: 1. He’s gonna last about 10 minutes before walking off the field, declaring “I’m done”; and 2. How am I going to watch two kids play two different ball games at the same time?
The former is a trait that is probably true of most three year olds in general. It just wasn’t an issue for his older brother-ever. At least not where baseball is concerned. But to my surprise, Brisco jumped right out into left field-where he spends most of his time anyway-and had himself a ball.
He fielded several hits and made a few great throws. One time he even threw to one of the coaches standing near third when he saw the runner at second trying to advance. I had to be sure and let him know that in a real game, the grown ups aren’t allowed to play.
The spectacle of the night, at least for his parents, came at the plate. In coach pitch, they’re allowed five pitches. Balls or strikes, it doesn’t matter where they land, five pitches it is. So there he stood, all 35 inches of him, armed at the plate with a bat that’s almost as long as he is tall. He banged the bat on the plate. Dust flew about, and he reared back into his stance. Then came the pitch.
He struck out his first at bat, but the second time up, he just had that look in his eye. That “Brisco” look that only he has. That determination, all-business, get-outa-my-way look that says he’s hittin this ball so you better get ready. He swung at the first two, but let the third pitch go by. Turning to face the backstop-and his mother-he yelled, “That one was too high! It was a ball!” I reminded him he would only get two more pitches, and as he struck at the fourth, I couldn’t help but think to myself how small he looked up there. So small, and yet, (if you ask him) so big!
Here it was-the final pitch. Could the little man do it? The ball came sailing in. He swung, and with all his might, he hit a high fly just behind the infielders at second and short. He dropped that bat and ran to first as fast as his little legs would take him. I was yelling like a moron, and I guess everyone else in the park was doing the same--even the mothers on the other team. And…Yes! He was safe!
I’d like to say I didn’t get all sappy and teary, but any mom who’s ever witnessed one of her kid’s “firsts” knows that it isn’t true. I welled up, like always, with that purest of Mommy pride that only comes when one of my two boys gets it right.
I’d like to say I was most proud of the way he ran through the base at first, as fast as those two stubby legs would take him; or of the fact that when he got thrown out at second, the coach on the other team couldn’t bear to make him go to the dugout; or of the way he took his “giant” lead off second, even though they aren’t allowed to lead off in coach pitch.
But really I’m no different than the most relentless of the Babe Ruth or Hammerin’ Hank fans-I’m a sucker for the long ball. And, so, it seems, is my boy, because as he recounted to his fan club his first official hit, all he had to say was this: “I hit it so high it almost touched the sky!”
I have no idea the kind of fun we are in for or what the future holds for our boys and baseball. They love it like a long lost brother and a big bowl of ice cream all rolled into one. It’s the last thing they think about at night and the first thing they beg to do in the morning. No amount of playing catch in the yard or taking grounders on the field can seem to quench their undying thirst for this game.
So as we took off our cleats and hung up our hat, this night of swinging metal and popping leather came to a close. Tonight, chasing balls and running bases became more than something designed for “Daddy’s boys” or Cooper’s friends. Tonight, the game of baseball came alive for Brisco Berra. For him-and for us-it was definitely a ballgame to remember.
And that’s All in a day’s work!
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