Baseball and other mishaps

Each season, I let Mark choose the sport he wants to play. I willingly agree to spend at least one evening a week in an uncomfortable chair or cold car, trying to read a book using the map light, and watching my son run somewhere nearby the chosen-sport ball.

This season, Mark chose baseball (also known as fall ball). I was a little worried, since he's never played an organized game of baseball, and because he's not really the most focused child. I'd avoided baseball for the past five years, because I worried Mark would get smacked in the head by a pop-fly while conversing with the other outfielders about Silly Bandz, Tech-Decks, or video games.

But he persisted, so this year, I signed him up for fall ball.

I was glad to see he wasn't the worst on the team, but he was nowhere near a natural athlete who effortlessly picked up the game, either. He could smack talk with the best of them, but he didn't necessarily have the goods to back it up.

I took him to the batting cages and tried to coach him on how to hit the ball. He blatantly ignored me (I'm a mom, what do I know about baseball?) until I took the bat away and smacked five good hits into the wall.

"I'm telling you what to do because I can knock the stuffing out of the ball," I told him. "Will you listen to me now?"

He nodded. My display had both impressed and startled him.

But as soon as his games started, he forgot my advice. He gripped the bat high above his head, at least a good foot above his helmet. It took all my restraint not to yell at him from the bleachers.

"Stop holding your bat so high!" I told him after the game.

"That's how the pros hold it," he retorted.

"You're not a pro!" I said. "When you start hitting the ball, you can hold the bat wherever you want." He didn't like that.

Then he discovered the joys of being walked. He realized he could get on base with very little effort and none of the humiliation of striking out. I realized, sadly, he would never swing his bat again.

Yesterday, he got walked a couple times. The first time up, he lolloped slowly to second base, and we cheered him on. The second time, he (slowly) stole second again, and again, we cheered. Right up till the next kid at bat walked. Which Mark took to mean he should walk, too. So he casually jogged over to third base, where he met up with another teammate, who was already on third base, and a little surprised to see Mark. The kid didn't know whether to run for home or chase Mark back.

"Go back, Mark!" my mom and I yelled from the stands. "Go back to second base!!"

Which alerted the catcher, who had the ball. He noticed the confusion at third base, and threw the ball to the second baseman, who met Mark walking back to second base. And...tagged him out.

But my favorite play of the day was the one Mark didn't make. Instead, he guided it.

Mark was playing second base, which meant he stood between first and second, to back up the shortstop, who made all plays at second base. Sure enough, a guy on first stole second, running headfirst toward the base. Mark jumped out of his way, and then, as the catcher scanned the field to see where to throw the ball, Mark helped him out. He pointed repeatedly toward second base.

"Did he just show the runner where the base is?" I asked, mouth agape.

"No," my mom answered. "He was telling the catcher where to throw the ball--to the other guy!" She mimed his pointing, and joked, "Don't throw it to me, throw it to THAT guy!"

Sure enough, the catcher threw the ball to the shortstop at second, who caught the ball and tagged the runner out. Mark rejoiced and danced around, proud of his contribution. My mom, Edra and I couldn't stop laughing.

So I guess all is not lost...Mark may not be the most gifted baseball player around, but he's certainly one of the most entertaining.