I am all a-twitter with excitement.
No seriously. I’m all a-twitter.
Why, Scott, why are you all a-twitter?
Well, since you so kindly ask, first because I got to use "all a-twitter" to describe myself. How often does one get that opportunity? But second and more importantly, my oldest son is about to enter the rock ‘em sock ‘em world of organized (loosely used here) sports.
Sam just made the cut off for being of adequate age to participate in his first team sport. And what do the icicles of winter yield to the flowers and green grass of spring? Baseball diamonds. BASEBALL, BABY!
Well, T-ball, anyway.
Some of you might remember the tirades Leah and I used to go on regarding T-ball, how not having winners and losers and giving everyone an equal chance to succeed completely destroys the purpose of sports. Don’t worry, we still think that way. Here’s the main difference.
We don’t live in earthy, crunchy, feel-good-about-yourself-no-matter-what-the-world-around-you-is-doing-and-make-damn-sure-that-you-insulate-your-children-from-life’s-realities, Essex, Connecticut. We live in earthy, crunchy, feel-good-about-yourself-no-matter-what-the-world-around-you-is-doing-but-make-damn-sure-your-kid-can-compete Mystic, Connecticut.
I drove over to one of the local middle schools to register Sam this past Sunday. There were probably 100 people in different phases of registering. I filled out the required forms and sat down with all my paperwork across from the directors of the T-Ball League. One of the two women scanned down her page and looked up at me with a slight frown.
“Mr. Stoddard, your son isn’t quite old enough yet. The cut-off date for turning five is May 1st. He missed it by ten days.”
I sat there in silence, trying to decide which tact to take – get angry, or beg for leniency. I didn’t have to decide.
“But this date is really just a guideline. We’ve already made a bunch of exceptions. Would you like him to play?”
“Yes, very much,” I replied.
At that instant, the other women leaned over and stared me down, saying, “Is he good?”
Competitive spirit, anyone?
“Yes, he’s good.” On my part, this was no small lie. He can’t catch. Or swing the bat. Just yet.
“Oh, good. You know, we pitch to them if they want us to.”
Thank you, God. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you. Thank-you.
When I told Sam that we were going to get him a new glove, bat, and batting stand, he was naturally elated.
“But first, Daddy, I want to learn golf.”
No, Spaulding, you’ll play T-Ball and like it.