Remembering

It's unbelievable that it has been 10 years today since I have seen my Daddy. Ten years since I heard his voice. I could write a really long, sad post about how much I miss him but I would rather share his humor, honor him in a way he would not roll his eyes over. But, I will say (because this is my blog and I can say whatever I want..eye-rolling and all) that he would have been a super-fun Grandpa. I have missed him for different reasons the past ten years, but today it is mostly that I selfishly wish he was here so that I could see him with my kids...and that they could have had a relationship with him. Okay, put away the tissues. If you have some Jimmy Buffet near, by all means crank it up in his honor and enjoy a favorite story written by my Dad.

Where Did You Get All That Gray Hair, Dad?

"Play Ball," the umpire yells as ten very small girls in pony tails with ribbons and hot pink uniforms, take to the ball diamond with an uncertain, maybe even confused air about them as to whether they're in the right position. The cheering section comes alive as the fans, (ill-fated parents), yell a little bit of encouragement to the ball player of their choice and then emit small sighs as they realize this will be a long hour and fifteen minutes. This is just the beginning of a comedy that takes place in my part of the country better known as girls softball, specifically mini-girls, eight years and under. I'm a veteran of these doings. This being the second year that my darling blue-eyed, blond-haired, eight year old all star has talked me into yet another season of anguish, and stomach rumblings. However, I believe she probably looks at it a little bit different than I do. "A time to learn sportsmanship, become physically fit, and just generally commune with fellows of her own persuasion." These are the words of a second grader. Can you imagine?

Anyway, being the veteran that I am , I thought I could enlighten those of you who have never experienced the game of softball as played by these athletes. First, and I assume to expedite the game, a coach pitches to his own team. Now I'm a firm believer that it's not how good a hitter the child is, rather it's how well the coach can hit a moving bat with the ball. After the ball is hit though, everyone, coaches, fans, teammates and the opposing catcher, yell at the batter, who is still standing there gazing at the ball which has rolled approximately ten feet, to become a runner and advance to first base. Now, while all of this is going on, the other team's coaches, fans, and teammates are also yelling at the child whose fate it was to have the ball roll towards her position. Although it didn't quite reach her down on the ground, outstretched glove, she is waiting patiently for it to resume it's path. Eventually, she does pick it up to the excited relief of all concerned and promptly throws it through the only hole in the fence to come to rest under a pile of paper cups in the first base dugout. This act of God, probably some small footnote in the rule book, has allowed the umpires to mercifully stop the runner at second base.

The next batter steps up to the plate, swings at the ball as an afterthought, and drills it between the legs of the second baseman, who, at the time had been carrying on a conversation as to how her mother fixed her hairbefore the ball game, with the girl that is now standing on second base. This does get her attention though, and she dashes off towards the outfield fence, passing all the outfielders who content in the fact that they didn't miss the ball and she can just darn well go get it herself. After retrieval, she throws the ball with all her might in her little body, towards second base thus having the ball end up somewhere around first. There is generally one player on each team, (I believe it's required by law, to keep parents from slipping into a deep depression), that can catch the ball. This player is on first base and expertly fields the errant ball, spins and throws for home plate to try to put out the opposing slugger running full tilt with pigtails flying in the breeze. Now said player is also gifted with a very strong arm, so everyone watches with upturned heads, as if in slow motion, the ball sails over the twenty foot backstop into a crowd of customers at the snack bar sending them scurrying for the safety of the parking lot. This type of play, which I might add has been practiced to death at every spare moment the parents have had between work and sleep for the past three weeks, continues until either the opposing coach is able to strike out some of his own players or God forbid, the team has batted around one time, jacking the score up to unbelievable digits to end the inning.

Fortunately, the other team has to go through the same trial by fire when they take the field, so the score ends up close, somewhere around 33 to 30. This usually excites the kids, but has the parents stopping for some type of strong anti-acid from the nearest 7-Eleven on the way home. I guess the main reason for all the tension we parents go through is probably caused by the fact that we want our little ball players to do well. We wish we could once again get out there to hit that long homerun or field the big play of the game for them. Unfortunately, the league keeps us out with those damn chain link fences and gates that only players can pass through. In the long run, it's the look on their sweet, dirty, little faces after they have hit that homerun or made the big play, that allows us to go back and endure another ten or fifteen games of the same sadistic caliber. Just the other day, after a ballgame that followed the same type of pattern, while we were sitting in the local Dairy Queen eating our after game ice cream cones with peanuts and chocolate on top, my youngest looked up at me innocently and asked, "Where did you get all that gray hair, Dad?" Well, I just wonder.

Written by David Lee Rucker