SUPER DAD

Yesterday I forgot to mention that Sonwun was forced to wear a dirty baseball shirt to his game Tuesday night. Why?

On Tuesday morning, before school, I decided the mountain of dirty clothes in the corner of his room needed some attention. I had spotted his baseball shirt in the mix and I knew he needed it that night. And so, in an effort to be a good parent and instill a little responsibility, I told him he needed to get his clothes down to the laundry room, so that he would have clean stuff for baseball. 

I passed the same message along to Sontoo who, not wanting to be left out, immediately grabbed his hamper bag and ran downstairs in order to beat his brother to the punch.

Fast-forward to 15 minutes before it's time to leave for baseball and soccer. Sonwun, as I knew he would, came out of his room wearing his dirty, grass-stained baseball shirt. He'd dug it from the pile of dirty laundry still occupying the corner of his bedroom beside the dresser. And he got a lecture about responsibility, about doing his part, doing little chores to make the household run efficiently. I explained the importance of us all working together for the common good. I told him "I forgot" is not an acceptable excuse. And I gave him my best disappointed look. 

I think it sunk in. I think he learned a valuable lesson. Parenting complete. I am Father the Wise.

So, to summarize, Sonwun had to wear dirty clothes to his baseball game because he did not get them to the laundry room in time for washing, as he'd been asked to do. 

Sontoo, on the other hand, did as he was asked. He gathered all his laundry and got it to the laundry room, with LOTS of time to spare. 

And he got to wear a dirty soccer uniform because I forgot to wash it.

I'm an awesome parent!

If you wanna be a cat wrangler . . .

All righty then, let's talk baseball, shall we?

Specifically, let's talk about a kid's first experience with "organized" ball. And let's talk about a parent's frustration with said baseball. And just for fun, we'll use myself and Sonwun as examples.

We signed up a month or two back. It's free, and worth every penny. Well, it's free except for the $50 deposit we had to put down for a "uniform." $50?? Cool, I thought. Must be the whole thing with pants, socks and hat.

Um, no.

For the $50 deposit, we got a shirt. A big shirt. A shirt that comes down below the boy's knees. A shirt that would definitely fit Neomom and, quite possibly, me. There may be a five-year-old or two on the planet that could wear this thing, but I've never seen one.

So, expectations are lowered somewhat. But let's look at that, shall we? What exactly are my expectations, and am I aiming too high?

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .

And, based on those expectation, I hope my boy will have a good time and learn a few things.

That's about it.

So, now, let's talk about the past couple of practices. A couple of weeks back, it was "picture day." And on this day, an individual with a digital camera and dreams of big bucks shows up to record, for posterity, the beginning of a dozen baseball careers.

But, rather than set up, say, behind the backstop, out of the way, this Geddes wannabe sets up on the diamond, rendering it uninhabitable for the future Blue Jays' practice. And the coaches, apparently, decide the outfield area is not a part of baseball.

And so, while the photographer plods through a dozen photos, taking the entire hour, the kids play a rousing game of "What Time is it Mr. Wolf" while I grind my teeth in the bleachers - for an hour.

And so, having missed out on batting practice (his favourite) the previous week, Sonwun and I show up, on time, at 5:55, as usual, the following week. And once again we're alone with the coaches. Slowly, the others dribble in until about 6:15 when there are enough, apparently, to begin practice.

And batting practice is on the agenda. Naturally, the kid who arrived at 6:15 is the first to bat. He gets about 8 minutes of practice. By the time Sonwun's time at the plate rolls around, at 6:57, he gets about two minutes.

And I grind my teeth in the bleachers.

Oh, and one more thing, for now. When learning to bat, it's important for the young player to raise the BACK elbow in anticipation of the pitch. Raising BOTH elbows is counterproductive to the batting process and not one of the fundamentals of baseball. It is also galactically stupid.

Okay, I'm done.

And, in fairness, I should point out that Sonwun is enjoying baseball, as well as What Time is it Mr. Wolf. And I should note that the coaches are volunteers, who are taking time away from their lives to, um, coach, this team. And for that I am begrudgingly grateful.

But still . . .

1. I expect the coach, or coaches, to know and be able to impart the fundamentals.
2. I expect the coach, or coaches, to have some ability to handle five-year-olds. And yeah, I know that's like herding cats. But if you sign up to be a cat wrangler . . .