by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . April 23, 2010 . 3:06PM
Dear opposing team VOLUNTEER DAD coach,
Last night, as I sat in the rain to watch my 9-year-old play, after my full day of practicum and class, I watched you make a donkey of yourself. You made me really angry, so what I am about to say is probably going to shock you and several other people, but I’ve had a really bad several months and you know what they say about my give a flip…it’s busted.
When you ran over to the umpire to not just chastise him for a call, but yell at that 17-year old kid because of the placement of the glove on the little kid’s chest, it was all I could do not to take my super strength golf umbrella and define “rip him a new one” for you without using google. Do you know what that phrase means? It means that you can push a 17-year-old kid around, but you are modeling behavior for my 9-year-old kid. Not doing the same poor behavior in front of him is the only thing that stopped me from showing you that you cannot bully everyone.
In the South, they call what you did “showing your ass” and sir, you certainly did. For the rest of the game, the parents did not focus on their children. They nervously bit their lips and watched your reactions. You were the free entertainment. Your own child, whichever poor soul he was, was certainly not focused on the game.
I have dealt with people like you before and let me tell you, they get what they deserve. Maybe not on a little league field, but in life. The manager who browbeat her staff got fired hardcore and couldn’t find a job for months. Karma is a very real thing. Last night, we all got a nice little treat of how you act, but the worst part of it was that we saw what your family puts up with on a regular basis and we felt for them.
It might be time to relax, my friend. Strokes and heart attacks are not to be messed with. Deep breathing and some time at the spa might do you, and the rest of us by proxy, some good.
Sincerely,
Me
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by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . September 2, 2009 . 11:03AM
Well, baseball fans, Fall season ’09 is upon us and the one thing we know already about Fall Season ’09 is this: it’s not about the competition.
In our league, fall is a time for learning. Kids move up to the next level, if applicable, and often, this is a time for kids that have never played to find out if this is a sport that interests them.
Some of the implications of this are crowded teams and frustration for the kids that have already played and know what they’re doing. It also means sheer boredom for the parents who are looking for an exciting game, especially at our level.
The 9/10 year old kids start the beginning of kid pitch and this means there are a lot of walks and a lot of flinching as the ball heads toward the plate. It also means that I have some observations with a new team that I can’t necessarily say out loud. Hence, the list that should never be said aloud.
Things that are not ok to say to other people’s kids
If you run like that and a girl sees you, she’s going to laugh at you for running like a girl.
“My feet hurt” is not an excuse to quit practicing. If you are this kid’s parent and you cater to this, I’m going to mock you out loud.
If you “pitch” a ball at my kids head on purpose and it hurts him, I reserve the right to make you see God myself. Screw your pansy parents.
If you are 9 or 10 and cringe and duck when a ball comes at you, yet you have a dad who takes the time to come to practice, call it a year and you and dad go play dodgeball until you are ready to play. This is baseball, not “cuddles.”
Quit looking at the sky/twirling/playing sudoku on dad’s phone between innings. If you aren’t here to play, get off the team.
Do NOT tick me off. I am in charge of snacks for the team now and then.
Don’t make fun of the fat mom. She’s hot. And tired. And hungry.
Listen to your coach. He obviously cares more than your incredibly permissive parents.
I care about you, which means I want you to WIN. Quit whining and walk it out.
The grandmother that comes to watch every game can beat you in a foot race. If you don’t want to run, I’m sure there is a TV team somewhere that needs a player.
Ok, so it’s harsh. I warned you it was stuff you think but don’t say outloud. Stay tuned for my parental observations. Here’s to a new season!
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . September 1, 2009 . 2:30PM
When I played softball, for 8 years, I would like to think that I played hard. I did what I was told, most of the time, and I loved the sport, so I tried to do my best. First base was my spot of choice and I think I was probably the most capable person on our team to play there. I rarely got moved, with the exception of the times we needed a pitcher and they wanted to scare the other team with my erratic, and sometimes decent, throwing style.
One aspect of the sport that I could never quite “get” was sliding. It wasn’t that I tried and I couldn’t understand how to do it. It was that I adamantly decided, early on, that I just wasn’t going to do it. Period. End of story. No. No. No. I’m a team player, but that is out of the question. Where did this come from? T-ball.
Yep. I tried to slide in t-ball. Not just any slide. I tried to Petey into second base in t-ball. I’d seen it on TV. It’s what you were supposed to do.
I skinned the crud out of my hands and knees and would never try it again. It didn’t matter that this was irrational thinking. Sliding wasn’t my friend and I would just have to run harder or not steal, both of which I did in great amounts.
Now, we come to my adorable, precious child. A.J. wants to slide. He sees the other kids, who have been taught to slide, and wants to do it because it looks cool. Friday night, we had a scrimmage game and he ran back to second base. About that time, his coach and I both watch him ROLL over the base. When his coach yelled, “A.J., what just happened?” He said, “I was sliding back to second.”
I’m not making fun of my son, but he looked like a dog rolling in the dirt after a bath. Ok, I’m making fun a little. He just doesn’t know how to do it. Now we know that he wants to learn. His coach hid his face and said “No sliding back to second.”
Nope. No sliding. Sliding is hard. Run faster or don’t steal. Or learn how to do it properly. I think we may break the cycle with this one and learn how to do it properly.
Or continue to roll over the base.
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by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . August 19, 2009 . 1:59PM
It’s time for fall baseball! My loyal readers, bless your hearts, know that I’ve been in something of a withdrawal since spring baseball was finished in mid-June. There have been no funny stories about parents going at each other, no heroic stories about kids doing brave deeds in the name of the game and no friendship stories that center around the team spirit that comes from the love that can only happen in a dugout (during gametime, not after game fumbling between two teenagers).
A.J. has a new team and he doesn’t know a single player. He’s not the only tall boy because he’s moved up to the 9/10 age range and these kids mean business. The fall season is predominantly about learning. No score is kept and coaches focus on teaching the mechanics of each position and being a good sportsman. At least, in theory, that is the goal.
In order to keep A.J. in something of prime shape, we’d tried to pair him with a coach during his down time to help him focus on some problem areas that we thought fixing might help make him feel more comfortable with his game-play. He adored his downtime coach, even though his time with the coach was cut short due to what A.J. refers to as “the Kentucky Incident.”
I don’t know that I’ve blogged this, but after a short time of telling everyone, including the clients at my job site and the people I work with, about the Kentucky Incident, he has now decided that he is refusing to ever discuss this tragedy ever again.
So, A.J. had met a coach he liked and this week we found out that A.J. is on this coach’s team for the fall season. A.J. is happier than a pig in slop. He had his first practice with his new team today and I had some observations.
One, kids will remember the last thing you said. And that’s it. Coach said, “I need half of you to line up behind shortstop and half of you to line up behind second base.” All 11 children lined up behind second base.
Two, there are some children who aren’t cut out for the sport. I viewed this instance in what seemed like slow-motion. One child looked at a pop-up with a quizzical expression, stuck his tongue out thoughtfully, clasped his hand and glove together, shook his head and let the ball fall next to him. And then nodded to himself as if to say, “Yep. And there it went.” I nodded with him.
Three, even if they are lining up for something unpleasant, if you tell kids to line up, they will run like their pants are on fire to be first in line. In this particular case, they were lining up to simply run the bases. I would rather eat my arm off my body.
Four, and this is going to sound cheesy, but children are like flowers. If you give them strict boundaries, discipline and compliments every time they do things exactly right, it’s like water, air and sunshine to flowers. They will flourish, work hard and try even harder to do their absolute best.
They GROW. I’ve never seen my son run so hard.
With the exception of the time he ran from the upstairs to the street for the ice cream truck.
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 15, 2009 . 1:22PM
A.J.’s team ended the season as first in their age bracket and 2nd in the tournament. After 2 games a week, for 3 months, the season is over and we can finally have our weekends back. So, why am I sad?
I woke up Sunday morning feeling slightly melancholy. A.J.’s team finished their time together on Saturday and they won’t play together as a team again, as he’ll enter a new age bracket and it gets “serious” now. You don’t understand. At age 9, they start “majors” and “minors” and “drafts” and all kinds of craziness that turns this from a hobby into a pressure-crazed event that takes all of sports-centric parents into lean, mean, stage-mom machines.
Before I pulled my sunburned body out of bed, I lay there for a couple of minutes and contemplated the reasons why I might be feeling down over the end of this particular season.
Was it because they got along so well? This team worked very well together and anyone that has an 8-year-old knows that getting 12 of them together is just asking for temper tantrums and egos. We didn’t have any of that.
Was it because I like winning and they were, hands down, the strongest team overall? True, I have a competitive nature and I enjoyed watching them win, however I’m ok with them losing, too. Watching them was a joy.
Was it because I now have nothing to do on my weekends? Hardly. I’ve got a wedding next weekend and I haven’t been able to go out of town on a weekend in ages. Shopping? I try to “work it in” between baseball games.
I think, what I’ll miss most, is the true sense of community that this experience has brought to me and my family. We moved to this home over a year ago, but the majority of our friends are still those that we made at college or who live in the big city. Having friends who have families and live in this small community is new for us. They have similar values and connect with us in different ways than our other friends do. It only enriches our lives more.
What made this more poignant was that I didn’t truly realize the value of our baseball community until the end of the season. I’ve grown attached to these children because I’ve watched them grow and cheered them on all season. When one of them got hurt on Saturday, my heart jumped into my throat and I felt sick to my stomach the same way I would if A.J. got hurt. Evolutionary psychologists would imply that this is a basic function of community: we stick together to ensure our survival and take care of one another. We’ve done that all season.
I’ve commiserated with parents. Been angry with umpires. Consoled and encouraged children. Hugged most of them and adored all of them. Fed them and watched them all become such amazing players and move out of their comfort zones. Most of all, I’ve felt as proud of all of them as I feel for my own child. They are a special group and, as his first team, they hold a special place for me and for him. I hope that I can continue to watch them grow and excel.
While I’m sad for myself, I’m excited and curious to see where they are heading. I know that it will be somewhere special.
Home
Life is like a game. We all have challenges, thoughts, opinions and beliefs. Often, it feels like something out there, life, karma, catty people, or blue shells (for the Kart lovers), seeks to bring us down. Luckily, we always get up. This is where I wear my heart on my sleeve and my foot in my mouth.
