For The Love of Baseball

A few conversations this weekend got me thinking about how we as parents influence our kids in sports.

I’m a Baseball Mom.  My 12-year old started playing when he was 6. Well, actually, he started playing when he was 3, in the backyard, when I showed him how to hit a ball with the $1 wiffle bat I bought him at Walmart and the 5 gallon Zephyrhills bottle I made into a tee, but he had a REAL coach when I signed him up for Pony Baseball League at the beginning of first grade. That first year, his dad got on to him a lot.  Yelled when he didn’t catch the ball, agonized if he didn’t run fast enough, told him how many things he did wrong sometimes until he was standing there on 1^st base crying so hard he didn’t care anymore.  The thing was, he wasn’t a bad player, he made the All Stars team that year, and a lot of his fellow teammates had been playing in the league since they were 3.  But that seems to be what a lot of Baseball Parents do.

I had a similar experience as a child.  I was a competitive gymnast.  I often won the floor and uneven bars events, though beam and vault were more of a weak point.  The fact that I was on a team at all was actually a huge accomplishment:  not a lot of people know this, even those I’ve known for years, but I have mild cerebral palsy.  I would go home from a gymnastics meet and put my leg brace on.  One of the several leg braces I wore over the years, in addition to surgery.  To this day, I am physically incapable of “pointing” my left foot properly, something you need to do in every event as a gymnast, or points are deducted from your score.  And that was what my mom focused on….

“Well, you probably didn’t get first place there because your foot wasn’t pointed on that tumbling pass.”  “Your feet just didn’t look right.”  “We need to work on that foot.”

Um, do you see all those blue ribbons on my wall in my bedroom?  That was all I could ever think.  Eventually, I just came to hate gymnastic, because I apparently just would never be good enough.

So, I quit.  And joined my high school track team.

I joined as a sprinter, which I actually did pretty good at.  I even did hurdles, though they were almost as high as my 5’0” body, the gymnastics probably helped with that.  That, and the fact that I banned my mom from attending any meets.

At practices, however, I discovered my true calling….distance running.  I ran Cross Country the next year.  And then the following season in track, I did the distance races.  I started running road races, and winning my age group.  I eventually ran Cross Country for my college, the University of South Florida, as well as continuing road races.  If I look over the top of my computer right now, I can see the shelf full of my trophies.

My mother has never seen me race.

While in the past I have actually helped coach and have been on the board for his league, and I have never in over 6 years missed a game, I am hands off when it comes to my son.  He has coaches to tell him what to do, what position to play, and how he can improve.  My son loves baseball.  I want it to stay that way.

After that first year, my son’s dad and I divorced.  I was the one who went to all the practices and games.  It was just me.  I make sure shoes are tied and socks match and that he has enough water in the dugout with him to stay hydrated.  I talk to the other mom’s during the game, often about non-baseball topics.  I have snacks in my bag in case they are needed.  I am on an infinite quest for the method to easiest clean clay and grass stains out of white baseball pants.  I say a little prayer in my head that my child will hit the ball, and I cheer when he does.  I see that awesome catch and smile.  When the ball bounces out of his glove, I pretend I missed it, because I know everyone has an off day. 

I expect him to respect his coaches.  I expect HIM to communicate to his coaches how he feels about things, and I expect him to do what they say, even if he disagrees.  I expect him to give his all and to realize it’s about the team, not him. 

I don’t expect him to be perfect.  I don’t expect him to never miss a ball.  I don’t expect him to never strike out.

I expect him to have fun, and to play the sport because he wants to. 

And he does.

He doesn’t need me to criticize him, he criticizes himself enough already.  He needs me to encourage him and remind him it was just a game, and then to pretend it didn’t happen and take him for ice cream anyways.  And I do.

He is an outstanding player.  He knows what his weaknesses are, and he works on those all by himself, without anyone telling him to.  He’s outside now with his batting stick even though this is the only night this week he does not have practice for one of the two teams he is playing with.  He didn’t need a parent with instructions and drills after every game to make that happen.  He is where he is through his own hard work determination, and that is something he can be proud of, proud of HIMSELF for.

His dad has started coming to his games again, and now he has a stepdad that attends also.  But he doesn’t have anyone criticizing him.  Just two dads who love and encourage him and let him love the sport, and let his coaches coach him.

One day, he may decide he doesn’t like baseball anymore and that’s fine, but if that happens, I don’t want that to be because a parent drove him to that point.  So far he’s not afraid to ride home in the car with anyone after a bad game, so I think we’re on the right track.

And now, I’m off to clean the kitchen and do a few more loads of laundry and do some straightening up because this is the only time this week I don’t have to be at the baseball field. 

That’s why they have wine.