Tag Archives: sweet

Boys of Summer

I’m not much of a sports fan, but I do enjoy baseball.  It’s not just the game; baseball means spring, youth, and sunshine.  When I was younger, I would go to spring training in Arizona with some girlfriends.  Of course, the main reason we were there was proximity to the players, and to meet all the guys who went down to watch the players prepare for the regular season.  But we did watch the games.   And although I enjoy a good double play, I must say there is nothing like a handsome young player in a snug pair of baseball pants.  Yes indeedy, baseball pants make a fine display of firm male posterior.  Don’t tell me you never noticed!

Back in the day, I was a San Francisco Giants fan.  That was when the Giants played at Candlestick Park.  They renamed the stadium 3Com Park, but these names that go the highest bidder just don’t hold the same charm.  The ‘stick is a true fan’s park, mostly because only a true fan could stand to be there.  It’s a cement monstrosity built on a rocky outcropping on the bay just south of San Francisco.  It’s cold and windy.  The seats are uncomfortable.  The only fare offered back then was traditional baseball food: hot dogs, Cracker Jack, peanuts, popcorn, soft drinks and Bud. 

Now the Giants play at the new SBC Park.  It’s a beauty.  There is a play area for children, and the stadium offers a stunning view of the Bay Bridge.  The comfy seats each have a drink holder.  And concessions….well, let’s just say that one dines at the new park!  Forget hot dogs.  How about garlic fries, sushi, and microbrew?  Unfortunately all this modern luxury carries a hefty tag.  Don’t even think about taking the family to the game unless you plan on pawning your soul first.  

Needless to say, I do not attend Giants games with the regularity of my youth.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m afraid with marriage I had to change my allegiance.  My Georgia-born husband’s moods from April through September rise and fall with the performance of the Atlanta Braves.   Add to that the fact that I have three small children, and, well, I think you can probably guess how much time I have to even care about baseball, let alone follow a specific team. 

But in the past few weeks, all that has changed.  There’s a new team in town, and I am a diehard fan.  They’re the Cubs.  The Walnut Creek Youth Athletic League T-ball Cubs.  It’s the most exciting exhibition of America’s favorite pastime.  My whole family attends each and every game, and I am glued to the action on the field. 

I’ll never forget the first game… 

The player at bat looked menacingly at the pitcher, then fixed his steely eyes on the T and whacked one into center field.  It was an easy base hit.  Tagging the base with time to spare, he high fived the first base coach.  Tension was in every line of his body.  Would he run? 

No.  He turned his back to the action at home plate, scanning the fans with his eagle eyes.  Jumping up and down, he waved excitedly, and shouted “I love you, Mommy!” 

“I love you, too!”  I shouted back, beaming hugely at the parents around me. 

“How cute!” and “Oh, that’s sweet!”  they murmured in appreciation. 

Oh, what a day that was.  

The players are apt to be distracted by bugs in the grass.  The ball rolls through their legs, and they don’t always know what base to run. The Cubs play at a park where the view of the field is obstructed by a high cyclone fence.  There are a few bleachers, but no comfy seats, no drink holders.  Concessions are only offered to children, and most adults aren’t interested in the graham crackers and juice boxes, anyway.  

It’s the best damn ballgame I’ve ever seen.

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Middle Child

There was a fully hosted bar.  The wedding guest rested one foot on the railing of the bar, caught the bartender’s eye, and motioned to his empty glass.  “Hit me again”, his silent gaze seemed to say. 

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, son?” the bartender said quietly. 

The guest looked at the bartender with sad hazel eyes.  “Please”, he said with a catch in his voice. 

The bartender took pity, and filled the glass with a dark liquid, adding a squirt of something red.  My five year old son Jackson said “Thank you”, and walked off with his fifth cherry coke.  

My cousin walked past me, laughing.  “Jackson sure looks at home at that bar.  That kid cracks me up!” 

Sigh.  I worry about that boy. 

Dear Jackie, what am I going to do with him?  He tries to climb the stacks of Pepsi 12 packs at the grocery store, and hides on the shelf behind huge packages of paper towels at Target, ignoring my frantic calls.  He delights in torturing his older sister, who is so sensitive.  He knows every button she has, and pushes them at will.  He has repeatedly dumped out entire bottles of shampoo in the bathtub to make bubbles or wash his Rescue Heroes.  Tonight he deliberately threw rice in my water glass at the dinner table, laughing until he saw my look, then saying belatedly, “Oops.  That was an accident.”  At five years old he still throws tantrums, wrapping his arms around my legs in an attempt to hold me hostage until I agree to his demands.  No punishment, no incentive seems to reach him. 

Yet this same child, who is most likely of my three to drive me back to the bar for a refill, is also the most likely to spontaneously hug you and tell you he loves you. He can be happily playing with toys, will look up for a moment to say “I love you, Mommy”, and go right back to his play.  He even tells his sister he loves her, between button pushings.  He remembers to thank me for the small things, like making more lemonade, or washing his favorite shirt. 

This contradiction in Underoos asks more questions about life, love, God, death, and heaven.  After nighttime prayers with his Daddy, he told my husband, “I love you, Daddy.  Even when you get old and die, I’ll never forget you.” 

One night his sister Julia asked at the dinner table “What does steak come from again?  I forget.”  I opened my mouth to say “cows”, when Jackson piped up and said,

 “It comes from God, Julia.  God made everything.  He loves us, so he gives us food to eat.” 

My sister wonders at his range.  How can one child be so blatantly disobedient yet so loving and sensitive? 

When Jackson was born, our pediatrician, with whom we have a wonderful relationship, was busy giving birth to twins.  When she returned to her practice and met Jackson for the first time, she held him in her arms and looked intently into his eyes.  “Julia will always be our angel”, she said, “but this one…there’s something special about this one.” 

Yes, his spirit is larger than life.  What will become of this child of mine?  Will he be president or criminal (or worse, both)?  Watching him terrorize the household, my uncle once laughingly commented, “Better put bars on his windows now, so he can get used to them!” 

Recently we started giving Jackson an allowance for completing simple chores, and thus discovered his avarice.  Well, maybe we could use this to both our advantage.  After misbehaving dreadfully on allowance day in spite of several warnings, my husband sentenced Jackson to surrendering one of the two dollars he had received.  He was very proud of his allowance.  This will hit him where he lives, we thought.  He was upset for a moment, but then calmly took his remaining dollar, made copies on the copy machine, colored them green, and cut them out with safety scissors.

 “Now I have lots of money!”  he said gleefully.  “Do you want another one, Daddy?” 

Oh my.  Our son the generous counterfeiter.   We are so proud.