I love baseball. The Yankees in particular. My dad gave me the bug when I was a small kid and I’ve been obsessed ever since. I love everything about it. The players, the hot dogs, the lazy pace, the smack-you-in-the-face sight of the ball field when you first walk into the stands. And the cards. Man, do I love baseball cards.
Before I had kids, I always dreamed that my future son would be a baseball player. I’d travel with the guys and be the brassy, loud-mouthed team mom. A saggy old lady with bright red lipstick, sporting my Jeter jersey as I handed out Gatorade and condoms to the ball players.
When my son first developed the grasping ability, I handed him a plastic bat and held him up to the TV. “See those guys with the numbers on their backs? That’s gonna be you one day!” No pressure … right?
But my son never seemed to like baseball. Try as I may to get him hooked, he just wasn’t interested. We signed him up for Little League, and he stood in the field with his glove on his head picking his nose every game. I began to lose hope. I wasn’t going to be a brassy baseball mom. My dreams were dead. Dead, dead, dead!
And then a few years ago, Gabe was invited to an event at AT&T Park. The kids got to go onto the field with a bunch of ex-Giants players to strut their stuff.
My son started throwing a massive tantrum the minute he got on the field. He had NO interest in playing. My daughter, on the other hand, grabbed her bat and helmet and went skipping into the batting cage.
And she was incredible.
She whacked the ball with her tiny little string bean arms. Whack! Whack! Whack! Focused, determined, crouched to shorten her strike zone, she was a baseball wonder. The players started crowding around her, patting her back and telling her how great she was. She beamed up at them with a toothless grin and said, “I love baseball.”
“Guess you had the wrong kid,” Gabe said to me. Guess so.
I’m now a baseball, well, softball mom. To my daughter. And it’s just as good as I thought it would be.