Dreams and Nerves Collide at the Old Ballpark

Tis the season for ballgames. School ball playoffs overlapping summer league season openers. All three Stroupe boys playing summer baseball. Lots of field hopping. Add to that Church league softball where the only reason a 45-year-old dad plays is so he can spend time with his sixteen-year-old son. Though not the main point of this column, it is worth noting that my son and I had a goal at the beginning of the softball season. Simply put, we wanted to hit homeruns in the same game. Ken Griffey, Sr. and Ken Griffey, Jr. did it in a major league baseball game years ago, and we wanted to implant our names in the annals of church softball lore by accomplishing the same feat. Then one magical night, it happened- sorta. A mystical star alignment and a cooperative breeze produced a rare fence-clearing flyball from Old Man Dad early in a game. A few innings later, the teenager hit a deep gapper that looked to be a stand up triple. But the kid never slowed down at third and was declared safe at home after the execution of one of the most daring and acrobatic hook slides I have ever witnessed. Not exactly the way we planned it, but on the way home in the truck, we decided it counted. Anyway, please believe me when I say that living vicariously through these sons of mine I am not. Enjoying their rapidly passing youthful moments I am. I pull for them and root for their teams. But the wins and losses their teams experience neither make nor break my world. Admittedly, things change slightly when playoff time rolls around. Little League All-Stars. High school playoffs. That sorta thing. Parents’ stomachs churn. Fingernails are chewed to the nub. Umpires are burdened with extra scrutiny. Even so, perspective is important. I enjoy watching parents at games. Some are laid back and seldom react. Others are holding their collective breaths every pitch or play. I’m not being critical here nor am I accusing anybody of losing perspective and burdening their children with undue pressure. I am simply making note of the fact that some parents handle their children’s athletic exploits differently than others. Take, for instance, a mother I observed recently during a playoff game. Her folding chair was next to the fence well before the game began. She appeared supportive yet calm. Her occasional cheering seemed encouraging and positive. As the game progressed, so did her anxiety. Eventually I noticed that her chair was empty. A glance to the right answered my question as to her whereabouts. She had placed herself behind the dugout, out of view of the action. An informant filled her in after each nerve-wracking pitch. Despite her agony, I couldn’t help but smile. Her ticker couldn’t take what her eyes were processing. So she resorted to her standard operating procedure- hide and find out from someone else what happened. After the game, which ended in a loss for her side, I asked Mrs. Mom about the hiding routine. “I do it all the time. I can only take so much,” she explained. Despite hanging on every pitch, Mom was a good sport. I like that. Plenty of nerves but no bitterness. Massive anxiety but no criticism or finger pointing. A mom being a mom. Entertaining, but more importantly, refreshing.