Pane and suffering

Mark, my mom and I had returned from a long bike ride this weekend, and two out of three of us were tired. The youngest family member claimed fatigue, but as soon as our neighbor Caden knocked on the door, Mark's energy returned.

The boys ran out back to play. My mom and I put ourselves on time outs, and curled up onto the couches in the living room, where we could hear the boys playing basketball, then scooters, then finally, baseball.

"That soft ball is mine," Caden called out, which Mark immediately refuted.

"It is, too!" Caden repeated; again, Mark answered it was not.

I sighed, and sent Mark a mental message: If I have to get off the couch and come settle this, you will regret it.

Mark called out, "Fine, let's just play with this baseball, then." I congratulated myself on my strong mental telepathy.

But my bliss was short lived. Caden insisted the baseball was too hard, and Mark, once again, took the opposite view. Finally, one of them caved. I didn't hear who, but I heard them tossing the ball back and forth, and the bickering was replaced by more playful tones.

I settled back into the couch with my book. I was glad resolution had won out, and the threat of my services was no longer required.

Until...we heard a crash. A loud, piercing, unmistakable crash, that sounded exactly like what it was--glass shattering into a million tiny pieces. Somewhere nearby, a window was no longer whole, and for the slightest moment, impossibly optimistic, I thought maybe it had nothing to do with the two boys out back.

My optimism disappeared almost immediately. "Dammit," I said, and my mom and I went running.

Mark and Caden were standing in the yard, mouths agape, fear all over their faces. They couldn't even talk--Mark simply pointed to the neighbor's house.

I pulled a chair over to the wall and climbed up. My suspicions were confirmed--the neighbor's patio window was, indeed, in pieces everywhere.

My neighbor, a super sweet little old lady, never answers her door, so I called to break the news to her. She met us out back by the patio, and if Mark was afraid she'd be angry, that fear quickly subsided. Her first reaction was to hug Mark and ask if he was okay.

"He's such a good boy," she told my mom, who agreed. Even after this fiasco, she thought Mark could do no wrong.
 

I headed back to my house for a broom and dust pan to clean up the mess. I ran into Caden, who'd been standing at the edge of the yard, clearly still shaken. He's the nicest little kid in the world; he never gets in trouble, and I could see this was too much for him to take. Eyes big as frisbees, he saw me, gulped, then turned and ran home. It was the last time I saw Caden that afternoon!

Contrary to Caden's fears, I wasn't mad. I knew they were just playing around, and that it was an accident, with no malice intended. I congratulated Mark on completing this rite of passage.

"I think every boy in the world breaks a neighbor's window at some point," I told him. "Good job, now you got that out of the way!" I could see him begin to breathe again, visibly relieved.

We cleaned up the mess, and eventually, let our little neighbor get back to her afternoon, after profusely apologizing repeatedly. I thanked God for understanding neighbors, homeowner's insurance, and the fact that no one got hurt.

But just to be on the safe side, I promptly went out and bought a lifetime supply of Wiffle balls. Mark's disappointed he can't hit them as far as the hard baseball, but after one long, steely glance from me, he clarified that "it's okay, who needs to hit that far anyway??" 

I agreed, and reminded him that one window is an accident covered by insurance; but any further broken windows would be covered by Mark and his allowance. He just nodded, and unwrapped a brand new Wiffle ball.

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.

Sports and other dangerous hobbies

As a single mom, I sometimes feel guilty that my hobbies and interests have become Mark's hobbies and interests. He loves shoes, tabloid magazines and good gossip waaaaay more than your average 10-year-old boy should.

I try to balance out the things I like to do with the things he likes to do, and he likes sports. So this week, we went to TWO professional sporting events.

Saturday we went to the Dodgers game. He loves baseball and the Dodgers, but he was more interested in his root beer float than in the baseball game itself. We had incredible seats (thanks, Vic!!), and the guy two rows ahead of us even caught a foul ball (I've never been that close to a foul ball before). I was still pumped on the adrenaline of almost being killed by a rogue foul ball (ok, not really) when Mark asked if there were any more cookies left.

Our second event was a pro hockey game. We ate junk food for dinner and smuggled in trail mix with M&Ms in it. Security tried to take it away, but I uttered the D-word and the guard immediately said, "No problem," and ushered us past.

The kid next to us wasn't so lucky; Mark was mortified as security took the kid's whole, unopened giant bag of M&Ms away.

"He should've said he had diabetes, too," Mark said.

"And the M&Ms were for his lows?" I chuckled. "Somehow, I don't think it would've worked."

We ran into friends at the arena (what up, Devin!), and were having a blast before the game had even started. We found our seats and prepared for a fun night of hockey.

Let me just acknowledge at this point that I know nothing about hockey. I know there are three quarters, and I also know they aren't actually called "quarters" but that's where my knowledge ends. I almost screamed "Hit the ball!" a couple times, but remembered it was really a puck. But whatever, we didn't need to know what was going on to have fun.

Mark's favorite part was when a Duck player crashed into the other goalie, and sent him sliding into his own net. "Goal!" Mark shouted.

He also liked when an inflatable sheep floated around the arena during intermission. The sheep released coupons to the crowd below. However, because of where the coupons came out, it looked like the sheep was...well, urinating coupons on to the crowd. This was my opportunity to take the high road and be a good model for Mark, and I failed miserably. We were both in hysterics, and vowed to run if the sheep came near us.

Mark ate his trail mix, and the M&Ms inside gave him a burst of energy. He wrestled with me, and I reminded him that some people actually came to watch the game, not a hyperactive little kid. He settled for a less distracting round of thumb-wrestling.

We stayed through the first two not-quarters, and then it was time to take the little sports fan home to bed. The Ducks hadn't done too badly while we were in the arena, but by the time we reached our car, the Coyotes scored another goal off them. By the time we got on the freeway, the giant electronic sign said the Coyotes scored again! So we saw two goals in the arena, and two outside it.

All in all, it was a fun night. I'm no sports fan, but I love an event, and hey, the tickets were free. So you can't beat that, not even with a giant urinating sheep!

First game

This weekend's theme was baseball. We went to the Dodgers game with some friends, which was super fun, even if the Dodgers themselves played terribly. (Final score: 12-2. Which was actually 12-0 until 10 minutes before the game ended.)

Then yesterday, Mark played in his first official Little League game. He was stoked to play, and to incorporate some of the pro moves he'd witnessed at the Dodgers game. I was just hoping for something shy of complete embarrassment by my newbie baseball player.

I needn't have worried. Turns out, he was as good at baseball as he was at soccer, and previously at basketball. Which is to say not great, but excited, and his enthusiasm goes a long way. It also makes for an entertaining afternoon.

Mark played third base the first inning. He was wearing his glove on one hand and a batting glove on the other. He has his own sense of fashion, and likes to show it off whenever possible. During warm-up, he stood directly on third base, and stared off into the sky above him. I watched as the first baseman tried desperately to get Mark's attention to catch the ball.

"Third base!" he yelled to Mark, who clearly wasn't listening. "Hey, third base!"

The second baseman and shortstop also tried yelling at him, and finally, when someone shouted, "MARK!!" he woke up and punched inside his glove, ready for the ball.

The next inning, he played left field. He used his time out there to practice his Sponge Bob dance, and then worked on popping and locking with his arms. He danced a bit more, then stopped and waved at me. I pointed at my eyes, and then at the batter, and mouthed "Watch the batter!" He got the message.

He'd practiced his batting stance all week, and couldn't wait to show it off. He hit a few foul balls, and then, while he was waiting for the pitcher to get ready, some grandpa at the fence started yelling at him to hit the ball. (I never saw him yell at anyone other than Mark the whole game.)

"Get in the box, batter!" Grandpa yelled. "Hit the ball!" Mark frowned at him, and I snickered. Even random strangers knew Mark needed direction!

For the next inning, Mark went back to third base. This time, he paid attention, and crouched down, ready to field the ball. Unfortunately, he crouched so low, he was almost sitting on the ground. I prayed that nobody would hit the ball to him, and risk a facial injury.

He decided it was a good time to practice some more robot dancing moves. He finally paid attention to the game when a kid got on second base. But instead of protecting third, Mark mouthed off to the runner on second. I couldn't hear what he said, but I'm sure it was some kind of taunt about how he wouldn't make it to third. I was afraid the catcher would bean the ball to third base, where Mark was not, and the runner would steal not only third, but home as well. Mark, oblivious to all the strategy going on here, just smiled and waved to me again.

So the good news is, Mark held his own. He wasn't the best player on the field, but he certainly wasn't the worst, either. He reaffirmed my belief that he has ADHD, and he made me realize baseball may not be his sport, either.

But hey, maybe I'm looking too hard to find Mark's sport. Because no matter which one he plays--baseball, soccer, basketball--he spends most of the time on the field or court dancing.

Maybe I'm missing the obvious here; instead of signing him up for sports, I think I'll sign him up for hip-hop dance classes next spring instead.

But until then, I think this baseball season will be very entertaining...

Batter up!

Yesterday was another milestone for Mark--his first-ever Little League practice.

He's a pretty athletic little guy. What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm, and in fantasy. He may not have ever played baseball in a league before, but in his head, he ranks right up there with Babe Ruth.

We've been gearing up for the season, tossing the ball back and forth a bit. My friend Tim stopped by to play catch with Mark last weekend, and as I listened from inside, I giggled at the differences between how men teach kids games, and how women do.

Mark was showing off his knuckleball, but Tim was having none of it. He told Mark to just practice basic throwing and catching before he tried to get all fancy.

"Just throw it!" Tim told him. "Stop talking about your knuckleball, you knucklehead!"

Mark was a little nervous about being the new kid, and I was a little nervous for him, too. He's played other sports--basketball, soccer--but never baseball, and as one kid told him, "I've been playing since I was in T-ball!"

Of course, Mark's favorite part of the whole day was modeling his new clothes. He was thrilled to have new baseball pants, cleats and socks, although he was a little bummed you couldn't see much of the socks.

I watched as he played catch with one kid. He did pretty good, and my fears subsided. He made enough catches, and threw the ball far enough, that I thought he stood a pretty decent chance of surviving his first season.

I also saw what my next 10 Sunday afternoons would look like. It resembled watching my son play in the yard from a prison cell:



After catch, the players lined up to field balls from each position. Mark did okay with the catching and throwing, not so much with the hustling from base to base. He'd gone to a week long baseball camp a couple years ago, and I remembered his biggest gripe about baseball.

"I hate all the hustling," he'd told me then. "Hustle here, hustle there--I'm sick of running everywhere!" I could tell from yesterday's practice he still held firmly to that belief.

Mark moseyed down to the catcher's position, and did all right catching.



The batting was a little iffy. He stood straight up in the box, and his swing was a little slow. I knew his bat was too heavy for him (he has a wooden bat a friend cut down to kid-size for him). But he never gave up--he kept swinging, and got a piece of it almost every time. He hit a bunch of foul balls, and then got a base hit! I was so excited, I could barely sit still.




He stopped safely at first, and then fiddled with his helmet until the next kid up got a hit. And ran to first base. And met up with Mark, who was still there, fiddling with his batting helmet. And had no idea he was supposed to be on his way to second base.

So we do have some work to do. I can see a trip or two to the batting cages in my near future, and probably a lighter, smaller aluminum bat, too. We'll ramp up our nightly games of catch in the backyard. And Mark will certainly have to get used to the protective gear--he spent a lot of time re-adjusting his helmet and his--um, lower body protective wear--which at least made him look like a professional baseball player. As the season progresses, he'll get used to that, and use his hands for catching and throwing instead.

At least, that's what I'm hoping for. I'm also hoping he likes baseball well enough to play in the spring, because I'm going to sign him up then. I've gotta get my money's worth out of all the new baseball gear I've purchased over the past two weeks!

Play ball!

In our house, we have two types of baseball fans--the good kind, who like the Angels, and the other kind, who like a different local team that wears blue and has fans who shout bad things during baseball games. Yes, I'm talking about the Dodgers. I actually don't dislike that team, with the exception of Manny Ramirez--I hate a cheater--but Mark loves them, so I, of course, like their cross-town rivals.

Occasionally, the two teams play each other during the fabled Freeway Series. Mark and I love going to those games, mostly because we both like trash-talking the other's team, and the Freeway Series lets us spend three hours doing exactly that.

We even wore our fan gear--Mark's is a Manny Ramirez #99 (cheater) shirt:



Mine looks like a standard Angels shirt on the front, but I had it personalized to read Dinsdale 01 on the back. Hey, why wear some random guy's name when I can wear my own name??



Mark likes the Dodgers because his dad dug them, but he was curious about how I became an Angels fan. I explained that for most of my life I was actually a Padres fan, growing up in San Diego and all. I only became an Angels fan when I moved away.

"And because they have red uniforms," I told him. "And I look good in red!"

He just rolled his eyes at me.

We got to the game a little late, due to all the traffic. The Dodgers were already ahead by 1, which Mark relished. Soon enough, Matt Kemp knocked one out of the park, bringing in two more runs, and Mark was absolutely giddy.

"What's the score, Mom?" he asked me. "I can't see that far away." He squinted for effect.

"It's 3-0, Dodgers leading," I said, and he immediately stopped squinting.

"Uh huh!" he shouted. "That's right--3 to zippo! I could see it, I just wanted to hear you say it!" And he cackled evilly.

He wasn't the only one who was happy. Though our section was evenly divided, there was one rabid Dodgers fan who may have consumed 10-12 beers prior to the game start. He spent a good portion of the time screaming, "The Angels SUCK!" or "Let's go Dodgers! Angels SUUUUCK!"

The people all around us ignored him, but I have no such illusions. It's one thing to cheer for the other team, but to completely disparage the home team? And in our own house??? Hell to the NO!

So the first time he screamed "Angels suck!" I yelled back, "Then go home!"

Mark was mortified. "Mom!" he hissed. "Don't say anything!!"

"What? If he hates them so much, he should go home!" I said. "Obviously, he's unhappy here..."

Mark frowned and told me again not to say anything. Which is the best way to get me to say things. So I told him again to go home.

"MOM! I'm SERIOUS!" Mark spat at me.

"What, he can say bad things but I can't?" I asked. Mark nodded. Mark affirmed what I was thinking -- that he was afraid I'd get beat up, and he wasn't going to help if that happened. Nice to know he had my back.

The game was a good one. Mark suddenly stopped gloating around the sixth inning, when the Angels hit a home with two guys on base. Tie score! And soon enough, after the Rally Monkey jumped around a bit, they got another three runs. That shut Mark up. It also gave the Angels fans a bit of courage, as they started shouting insults directly at the drunk dude, who suddenly became very quiet.

We sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch, bought peanuts and Cracker Jack, and had a blast. We left happy, tired and with a good sugary buzz.

And even though our teams are fierce rivals, Mark and I are not. We walked out of the ballpark in our opposing team shirts, holding hands, laughing, and recounting our favorite parts of the game.

Which made me appreciate the Dodgers just a little bit. Because without them, we wouldn't have our trash-talking tradition, or all the memories at the ballpark--and I would surely miss all those.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack

Friday was a huge milestone for Mark -- not only did he get to see the Dodgers play, he finally got to see them play at Dodger Stadium. And it was UCLA night, Mark's favorite school. Dodgers and UCLA all in one evening -- Mark was thrilled.

This was a big deal for him, so I left work a little early. I figured with Friday night traffic, driving through downtown Los Angeles, I'd need lots of drive time. Turns out, I allotted too much time -- traffic was almost non-existent!

We were among the first 20 c a r s to arrive at the stadium -- the p a r k i n g lot gates weren't even open yet! After a short wait, they opened, and we had our choice of spots. We found a similar scenario at the stadium -- the gates weren't open there, either.

But soon enough, they opened, and Mark received his spiffy new Dodgers hat, in UCLA colors.

Mark was starving, so our first stop was the concession stand, where I purchased two Dodger dogs, a bag of chips, a bottle of water and a beer for $30. Mark thought that was a bargain, but then again, he's 10, and has no concept of money and its worth, unless of course it's his money.

We found our seats, which was pretty easy, because -- you guessed it -- the stadium was empty.

But we were not deterred. We watched the Pirates batting practice, took photos, watched the ground crew ready the field. We watched various people enter and exit the field, including one super tall guy. I told Mark he must be a basketball player, because he made everyone standing next to him look as small as a child. (Turns out it was Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a UCLA alum, there to throw out the first pitch.)

Mark dug the game for all of one inning. That was the time the Dibbs man came down our aisle selling little chocolate-covered ice cream nuggets. Mark couldn't focus on anything but that guy. He begged and pleaded until I bought him a pack.

He was munching away, and told me how he was sure he'd be a really good pro baseball player.

"Wouldn't I, Mom?" he asked. "Wouldn't I be a good Dodger?"

"You would," I agreed. "Right up until the Dibbs guy walked by and distracted you." We agreed that he could keep his hyperfocus if the players hit boxes of Dibbs instead of baseballs.

Mark lost his focus (on the game, anyway) again after the second inning. That's when he started swirling his water around in the bottle and screaming, "Twister!" I had to remind him some people actually came for the game, not an imaginary weather report.

He focused a bit for the third inning, but as it closed, he wondered when he was gonna get his second dessert (I ate half of his -- damn those Dibbs! They are addictive.) I reminded him that I was an Angels fan, and if the game was boring him, I was happy to leave. So he pulled out his camera and spent the next two innings snapping pictures and taking videos. He took a picture of the Dodger he was most excited to see -- Manny Ramirez. Who didn't play at all. Apparently, $50 million is not enough to get him out onto the field.

By the fifth inning, we decided to roam a bit. Mark decided he wanted Cracker Jacks, so we bought a bag. I realized halfway into the bag it was a bad choice. The sugar hit Mark immediately and he squirmed uncontrollably in his seat for the next two innings.

By the seventh inning, we were done (we'd been there four hours by then!). We stayed long enough to sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." Mark root, root, rooted for the Dodgers, and I tried to out-shout him by rooting for the Angels. We cracked ourselves up.

The parking lot was noticeably more full than when we arrived, and we couldn't find our car. Our landmark ("remember that we parked behind the scoreboard") proved too vague, so we rambled a bit until we found it.

I hadn't even hit the freeway before Mark fell asleep. Maybe it was the sugar crash, or the walking, or perhaps just all the excitement from our big day. Either way, he fell asleep with a smile on his face, a new UCLA Dodgers hat on his head, and sticky, caramel-coated fingers. He was one happy boy.