Father's Day Scare

A little friend of ours watched her daddy have a seizure right in front of her tonight. It was one of the most frightening things I've ever been close to, and except for calling 911 and trying fecklessly to bring him out of it by talking to him (obviously, I'm medically clueless), I was scared and helpless.

Mr. Peevie and I had taken our kids plus a couple of extras to the park to play baseball. We were taking turns pitching and batting, and generally having a good time. Little Un-named Friend (LUF)'s mom dropped off LUF and her daddy to play with us, and they were sitting on the bench along the sidelines.

Suddenly LUF-daddy started yelling and convulsing, his arms straight out in front of him. For the first 10 seconds or so, Mr. Peevie and I thought he was kidding around, but then 9-year-old LUF started screaming, and we knew something was wrong. I ran over, to do what, I have no idea; and I called to Mr. Peevie to grab my phone from the backpack and call 911. I started talking to LUF-Daddy, but of course, he could not hear me; he stopped yelling, but his arms were still extended stiffly in front of him, his eyes were rolling back and showing red around the edges, and bits of foam whitened the corners of his mouth. LUF kept screaming, and I just kept watching him helplessly, knowing only to watch to make sure he wasn't choking on vomit.

Mr. Peevie couldn't figure out how to dial 911 on my phone, so he handed it to me and went to put his arms around poor, terrified, screaming LUF. It took me three tries before I could get my fingers to hit the right keys, but finally, I got through.

"A man is having a seizure," I yelled into the phone. "We're at Hitch school; we need help." They asked for the address, which I gave them with Mr. Peevie's level-headed help; I couldn't remember the names of the streets with LUF-Daddy foaming and seizing next to me on the bench and his horrified daughter screaming 10 feet away. Meanwhile, the other kids were watching from where they stood on the field; except M. Peevie had moved to a safer distance and stood with her fingers in her ears and a scared look on her face.

After about a minute, LUF-Daddy slumped back against the cast-iron bench and his head lolled to the side. His eyes were open, but not rolling back; he was only semi-conscious. I was still talking to the 911 operator, who was asking me for symptoms and telling me to lay him on his side.

"I can't really lay him on his side," I said nervously. "He's sitting up on a bench, kind of leaning over on his side already. He's a big guy." She asked me to try to make sure he didn't choke on anything, and to flag down the ambulance, which was on the way.

Mr. Peevie still held tight to LUF, who was crying and screaming, "Daddy! Daddy! He doesn't know me! Daddy!"

I got back on the phone and called LUF's mom to tell her what was going on. "I'll be right there," she said grimly, and she hung up quickly.

As LUF-Daddy started gradually regaining consciousness (if that's the right word for it), he started looking around with a dazed and confused expression on his face. I was sitting next to him on the bench with my hand on his arm. When his gaze focused on me, his eyes widened in fear and confusion, and he started backward, like he was afraid of me. He clearly had no idea who I was or what was going on. I got up and moved away from him, partly out of fear for my own safety, and partly to help him feel safer.

LUF was still crying and screaming, and LUF-Daddy looked over at her uncomprehendingly. Then he looked back at me, and startled again. I took another step away, but kept talking to him in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.

"You had a seizure, LUF-Daddy," I told him. "It's going to be OK. The ambulance is on the way." I kept repeating this mantra, because it was all I could do; but he was still clearly disoriented, and my words probably sounded like what a pet hears when its owner talks to it in human language.

It felt like a year passed, with the screaming and crying, the talking gently but warily watching, the waiting, the holding. Every time LUF-Daddy looked toward me, he jumped in his seat, like he was afraid I was going to hurt him; and every time, I moved further away because I felt it was entirely possible that he could lash out in fear. A man came from across the street, hearing the commotion. He wanted to be helpful, and tried to talk gently to LUF-Daddy, but with the same lack of success that I had had.

"I wouldn't go too near him," I warned him. "He's disoriented and scared. He's still coming out of it."

Finally we heard the sirens, and the fire truck and ambulance arrived (it was probably less than five minutes), and LUF-Mommy pulled up at the same time. She leapt out of her car and ran over to him, ignoring my warning that he was confused and maybe she should move slowly; but thankfully, he seemed to recognize her. She talked to him gently, but he still didn't talk or move from the bench.

The EMTs moved more slowly and carefully, assessing the situation like professionals before walking slowly over to LUF-Daddy. One paramedic asked me for the details of what had happened, and I told her while they helped him up and loaded him onto the stretcher. LUF was still sobbing loudly with Mr. Peevie's arms wrapped around her.

As they pushed him toward the ambulance, LUF-Mommy's face crumpled, and I put my arms around her. LUF came running over to us, and jumped up into her mom's arms, wrapping her legs around her waist and sobbing even louder. We huddled together, with LUF's mom saying reassuring things to comfort her.

"His arms stuck straight out!" she wailed, "And his eyes were red, and there were bubbles on his mouth! He didn't know who I was!"

"I know, baby, I know," her mom said, holding her tight and crying. "It's gonna be OK now. The doctors are going to help daddy."

Two or three times before they left, the paramedics asked about LUF, making sure that one of the adults was taking responsibility for her. Later, when I was processing the whole event, I thought to myself how alert that was, for them to not only take care of their patient, but also to be aware of the needs of a distraught little girl.

After LUF-Daddy had been taken to the ambulance, M. Peevie came over and put her arms around her little friend and held her tight. LUF-Mommy and I sat down on the bench to give her a chance to talk and cry a bit. C. Peevie helpfully grabbed A. Peevie and his little friend and walked them home, while M. Peevie sensitively suggested to LUF that they walk a little ways away from us so that they did not have to hear what we were saying. When she felt ready, LUF-Mommy drove her car home, and Mr. Peevie and I walked home with the two little girls.

All of us spent time tonight processing that scary event. M. Peevie's process included extra cuddling at bedtime, plus a reading of Psalm 23. The rest of us just talked through what we saw and how we felt; and one of us blogged about it.

I'm sure poor LUF will be processing this for years. How does a child recover from seeing such a frightening thing happen to her own daddy right in front of her eyes?

I did some research on grand mal seizures, which is my diagnosis of LUF-Daddy's situation, and I learned that we did a few things right by mainly leaving him alone. Don't hold him down, don't put anything in his mouth, turn him on his side (which we didn't have to do for him because he essentially did it for himself), and note the symptoms and length of the seizure.

I learned that it is technically not necessary to call 911 for a person having a seizure unless there is no medical ID indicating that the person has a seizure disorder. In this case, we called instinctively, and only learned later that he had never seized before, which is a positive indicator for medical attention.

Next time, I'll look for a medical ID bracelet--although how you do that when a big guy is flailing and foaming at the mouth, I really don't know.

Next time, maybe I'll just plan to be somewhere else.

Magical Moments

Have you ever had one of those moments when time slowed way down and you felt like you had entered a magical alternate dimension where you were eternally young and you were surrounded by happy children, friendly adults, sounds of laughter and cheering, and there was cake, too?

Me neither.

However. This week we came pretty close to that moment. The eighth-graders challenged their parents to a softball game to celebrate their emancipation from grade school and to demonstrate their "superior" athletic ability.

We creamed them. It was awesome.

But wait: let me backtrack for a moment. First of all, we (and by "we" I mean Poor Man's Ricardo Antonio Chavira (PMRAC), who is a 4th grade parent; yay, PMRAC!)) reserved a field at Thillens Stadium for two hours on Wednesday night. Thillens Stadium is an iconic part of Chicago history, where generations of Little Leaguers played under the lights, and Jack Brickhouse announced the play-by-play during the 1950s.


To play under the lights at Thillens is to be a part of something bigger than yourself. To play third base at Thillens as a 48-year-old, mini-van-driving, capri-pants-wearing mother of three, against about 40 eighth-graders and their younger siblings and schoolmates, and to throw your own son out at first base* in a slo-mo-replay moment, is to make history that will never be written, but will also never be forgotten.

After we shut the kids down in the first half inning, we grabbed our bats and took the kids to school. I put myself first in the grown-ups' line-up because I got there first, and the dads were too polite to object. I smashed a single between the cocky teenaged infielders, who were no doubt thinking to themselves, "Sink in, boys, sink in; it's just C. Peevie's mom; she can't hit!"

I rounded the bases when Eddie "The Babe" sent one into orbit, and crossed home plate gasping for air and begging for the paramedics to administer oxygen. "I need a defibrillator!" I wheezed, and Mr. Peevie said, "You need a work-out program." Like I have mentioned in the past, he has a bit of a mean streak.

Since there were little kids playing on the kid team, we let them have five outs per inning. We let them swing until they got a hit, and we "accidentally" fumbled the ball in the field. See, we wanted the little ones to have fun and success, but we had no such concern for the big kids.

O-Daddy and I formed an unbreachable wall covering third and short. I think he took one look at my out-of-shape self and thought to himself, "Oh well, it's just a game." But then! Then I fielded a short-hopper to third and threw to first with precision and grace (if I do say so myself), and O-Daddy's jaw dropped to the ground.

"Wo, Momma!" he said with admiration. "You got some mad skilz!"

"Yes, O-Daddy," I said. "I may look like a zaftig, past-her-softball-prime mama, but when I'm in ready position in the infield, I am still 17!"

The rest of the Mamas and the Papas did great as well, recalling the skills of their lost youths ("yutes," for those of you who are fans of My Cousin Vinny, one of the funniest movies of all time), some of them more lost than others.

The bleachers were filled with additional moms, dads, siblings, and friends who opted to watch the game in the comfort of their blankets (yay! Chicago in June!), coolers, and snacks. I joined them after the first game, having already caused enough damage to my so-called muscles and joints to keep me sore for three full days.

We beat the kids soundly in the first game, and then we sang "Happy Birthday to" C. Peevie because it was his actual b-day, and then I served homemade sheet cake, passing the slices around the bleachers and to the players on the field. The playing, the talking, the trash-talking, the celebrating, the remembering, the laughing, the hanging out in a truly cool locale--these were all gifts of grace and beauty in a troubled world.

It was magical. In the Presbyterian sense of the word, of course.

*My son remembers this differently. In his version, I bobble the grounder, and he's safe at first. But he's been known to have a distorted view of reality.

Good Coach, Bad Coach

Last night at C. Peevie's game, the opposing coach got kicked out of the game. After grumbling, arguing, and complaining most of the game, he started arguing plate calls late in the final inning when his team was down by five or six runs. The ump got tired of the abuse, and after warning him to stop, he finally gave an ultimatum.

"One more word, and you're out of here," he warned Coach Obnoxious.

"One more word, one more word, one more word!" Coach O. singsonged like a nine-year-old, heading down the third base line toward the plate.

Ump kept his cool and stood his ground. "One more word and your team forfeits the game," he said. "Keep on walking. We're not re-starting the game until you're in your car." Now that's what I call setting boundaries! Go Ump!

"I thought there was going to be fisticuffs!" C. Peevie told me later, after he had made the game-ending put-out with a back-handed scoop-from-the-dirt at first base.

If I were a parent of a kid on that team, I'd be embarrassed and angry. I'd ask the league director to get rid of the coach; and if he stayed, I'd yank my kid off that team. There is no excuse for such childish, inappropriate and unsportsmanlike conduct from anyone in Little League, let alone a coach.

In other Little League news, A. Peevie's coach continues to impress with his kindness. We coaxed, bullied, persuaded, urged and ultimately forced A. Peevie to attend his team's game on Saturday. This two hour process took about as much physical and emotional pain and energy as actual childbirth.

We finally agreed that he would play one full inning, and then if he wanted to come out and sit on the bench for the rest of the game, he could. The coach started A. Peevie in right field. He was in full uniform, his cup was right-side-up, and he was not screaming, crying or complaining, so I considered it a personal victory. I prayed that the ball would not come anywhere near him.

At his first at-bat, A. Peevie placidly watched four pitches in a row sail over his head. I suspected that he would just have placidly watched four pitches in a row sail directly through the strike zone, but I counted my blessings. Four times that game A. Peevie walked on four pitches, scoring twice. He stayed in the game the whole time, and felt like a champ.

I felt my bones melt in relief that we gotten through one more little league trauma.

This little drama doesn't even take into account how excruciating minor league baseball really is, especially early in the season: tiny ten-year-olds try desperately to get the ball over the plate while parents bake on the bleachers, or, more likely in our lattitude, wrap themselves in blankets until mid-June. Games go on and on while players walk the basepaths and teams score 14 passive runs in a single inning.

Occasionally there's a pitch in the vicinity of the strike zone, and a lucky batter makes a connection. Inevitably the ball squirts through the legs of an infielder, and comes to rest in shallow right field. The right fielder jogs over, picks it up from where it's resting on a clump of grass, and attempts to throw it to first base without regard for where the runner actually is.

More often than not, the ball squigs past the first baseman, rolling clear over to the fence, and the runner keeps running. Minor leaguers throw the ball behind the runner, so most hits end up becoming home-runs, which is the only other way a team scores other than by walks.

Only eight more regular season games to go.

Meanwhile, we've had a reprieve from having three kids playing ball at the same time because of M. Peevie's season-stalling broken wrist. Cast comes off Thursday, then removable velcro cast for a week, then she's back in the swing as well.

Back in the Swing (Sort Of)

Chicago little league baseball has begun in spite of May snow flurries, brisk winds, and perpetually soggy fields.

We had signed A. Peevie up for minors because he had skipped a year of baseball, he's small for his age, and he still fears the ball. (He begged us to sign him up for majors, but we did not want him to be eaten alive.) The Little League Powers That Be (TLLPTB) decided, in their infinite wisdom, to place him into majors anyway, because of his advanced age (11). This made the little man very happy, because he sees himself with great confidence as a major league ball-player.

The first few practices were rained out, plus A. Peevie missed at least one due to illness. Finally, we made it to a practice three days before the first scheduled game. A. Peevie took the field reluctantly, warily eyeing the two boys who were batting fierce line drives from the first and third baselines.

"Ready position!" the coach hollered, but A. Peevie had no idea what he meant. He shuffled his feet, hunched his shoulders, and looked over toward me with a worried frown. A ball whizzed over his head.

"A. Peevie, get in ready position!" the coach yelled across the field, crouching down and dropping his glove down between his ankles to demonstrate. A ball whizzed by A. Peevie's left shoulder, and his worried frown intensified. He started to take a step toward me, but I waved him back.

"Give yourself a coupla minutes!" I encouraged him, but when I turned toward the coach I said, "Coach, I don't think he's ready for this level of play." I explained our situation, and he agreed that if A.P. was still afraid of the ball he'd probably be better off in minors in spite of his age.

Meanwhile, balls were still whizzing past A. Peevie, and he was doing his best to avoid getting killed or maimed. I waved him in, and by the time he got to me he was shaking and crying from terror. I comforted him and told him he gave it a try, and was very brave, but we'd move him down to minors where he'd feel more comfortable. The coach also patted his shoulder kindly and said, "Hey, buddy, thanks for coming out and giving it a try today. We'll get you up here in majors next year, OK?"

I called the league director, and he got A. Peevie onto the minor league Orioles, with a coach whose motto is "No Child Left Behind." As it turned out, the next day was the first game; but A. Peevie was not on board.

"I'm not playing," he announced adamantly. "I don't want to play baseball anymore. I'm not going to play."

"Well, buddy," I told him, "You have to give it a try. We only signed you up because you said you wanted to play, and now we've got you on a team in the right league, and you can't just quit."

"Well, I do quit," he said firmly. "I'm not playing." Fine, I told him, but you're going to sit on the bench with your team anyway.

Everything is a huge emotional roller coaster with this kid. He wants to play, he doesn't want to play; he can't wait for baseball to start, he can't wait for baseball to be over; he's crying, he's laughing insanely. It gets exhausting.

So we show up at the game the next day and met two of the assistant coaches. These guys are the kind of guys you want coaching your anxiety-ridden, ambivalent, inexperienced little leaguer. One of them gently persuaded A. Peevie to toss the ball with him. The other reassured him that he could play in the game if he wanted to, but if he didn't feel comfortable yet, he wouldn't have to.

In the end, A. Peevie chose to sit on the bench for the whole game, even though the coach asked him about every other inning if he'd like to get in the game. I alternated between sitting down by third base in my folding chair, wishing I had brought a blanket because it was so dang cold; and hanging out behind the bench to try to help A.P. meet some of the guys on the team.

One little guy chatted with us like we were old friends, and later, on the way home, A. Peevie smiled cheerfully and said, "I like that guy."

A. Peevie came home "sick" from school on the day of the next game, so he was off the hook for baseball once again. The next game is scheduled for Saturday, the day after tomorrow. I wonder whether my middle child will swing the bat, or sit in a miserable heap of stubbornness on the bench.

Frozen Pasttime

The sky is a dirty cotton sheet dropping dandruff on the shoulders of the city. The snow is blowing sideways, there are 17 degrees outside, and it's that time of year again: time to sign the kids up for Little League.

I find it difficult to think about baseball when I'm still wearing a parka, my fingers feel numb from frostbite, and there is ice forming on the inside of my windows. But alas, that is the lot of a sports-mom in this frozen tundra we call home. The first game will be May 9--which seems as far away as the Cubs' next World Series title.

This year we're back to three kids playing ball. (Hooray for the multi-player discount! It saved us $60.) A. Peevie and M. Peevie both took a season off last year, so we only had one set of practices, games, uniforms, team snacks, and injuries to deal with. There have been times in the past when we've had three kids in three different games (in one park) at the same time. Parents who juggle multiple baseball schedules deserve presents.

Meanwhile, M. Peevie was a little conflicted about the whole baseball thing until we told her that she could sign up for softball if she'd prefer. Being the inappropriate, pushy mom that I am, I have my dreams for her, namely that she will be the first woman in Major League Baseball. (That was my dream for myself, but then reality set in. Damn reality.) If she switches to softball so soon, it might diminish her chances, and then who will be supporting me in my old age?

As I have noted in a previous post, this girl has mad skilz, so I'm looking forward to her inaugural softball season almost as much as I would have anticipated seeing her showing the boys how to play baseball.

A. Peevie has decided to play again, although within four hours of Mr. Peevie putting the money on the table, he was already having second thoughts. "You didn't sign me up for Majors?" he whined. "Then I'm not playing." Majors, even though he's the right age, would have chewed him up and spit him out. He is smaller and far less experienced than the gigantic ringers that coaches recruit for majors.

A. Peevie was so distressed and obsessed about his "demotion" to the Minors (even though if he went to the Majors, he'd actually be skipping an entire level of play) that he was starting to get hives. Or maybe that was me getting hives because I'm allergic to whining.

I attempted to convert his thinking through logic: A.P., I told him, you have to take the leagues in order. You can't skip minors, and go straight from Bronco to majors! He would have none of it. "I'm old enough and I want to play in majors," he said. I think he just liked the sound of it: Majors. It just sounds better than minors.

I knew it would be a tough sell, so I skipped the fear strategy ("You might get hit by a fastball!") and went straight for bribery. "A. Peevie," I said winningly, "How can I help you feel better about playing in the minors? How about if we institute a reward system?"

His waxy ears perked up. "What if I said I'd give you a prize if you hit a single?" I said, knowing full well that I was heading down a dangerous road called Precedent. "Like maybe I'd take you out for ice cream if you got a hit?" Well, rewards is a language that A. Peevie is fluent in. He rushed to his room and drew up a detailed contract of prizes for offensive and defensive successes.

As I signed on the dotted line it occurred to me that he might not make it to the real MLB as a player--but he has the nascent skills of an MLB agent. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than buying him a book for hitting a double--but I did salvage my parenting reputation by reminding him that I would reward him just for going out there and giving it a good try, learning some new skills, and not being the kid in the outfield watching an ant lug a dead roly poly across the dirt.

C. Peevie, on the other hand, does not need external motivation to give baseball his all. He's been waiting by the front door with his glove since the season ended last August. The other day he asked me to go outside and have a catch (or "play catch," if you're not from my beautiful neck of the woods in the most beautiful county in the USA, Bucks County, PA) . Temps were below freezing, and I declined.

So stay tuned for the stories of summer baseball in Chicago--which cannot come soon enough. And in the meantime, you can catch up on my previous stories on The Little League Coach.

Championship Play-by-Play

The Little League Coach has posted my story about The Big Game. Click on the link to read about the heart-stopping action and C. Peevie's Big Triple. I can't stop writing that. C. Peevie's triple. C. Peevie's triple. C. Peevie's triple.

And here's the story behind the triple: On vacation, we drove up to Craig's Cruisers in Holland, MI to play. Everyone except grandmom and granddad took at least one turn in the batting cages. They offered slow pitch and fast pitch softball, little league pitching at 40-50 mph, and major league pitching at 70-80 mph.

Uncle G-Man was the only one brave enough to swing in the majors, and he actually popped a few home runs. I made a pretty good showing against little league pitching, and enjoyed it so much I batted twice. Each token triggered 20 or 25 pitches, with no break. By the end of each cycle, I was feeling my age, which is definitely north of 40.

Even though I was feeling the burn, I was still making enough contact to impress the little leaguer in line behind me. He looked to be about 13 or 14. As I exited the cage, he made eye contact and grinned at me. "Nice hitting!" he said. I was so happy that he left off the "grandma."

C. Peevie couldn't get enough of the cages. He must have batted four or five times, facing a hundred or more pitches. I have no doubt that the cages polished his timing, hand-eye coordination, and confidence--and the result was a strategic triple in the championship game. Next season, if I see him struggling at the plate, I will definitely take him out for some batting cage medicine.

The real champ at the batting cages, to my mind, was little M. Peevie. This girl was whacking softballs like a big leaguer, and I am hoping against hope that she decides to sign up for baseball next year. She already has it going on, and I fully intend to live out my fantasies in her.

Poor Mr. Peevie. We were watching her swing away, making contact with almost every pitch, and Mr. Peevie said, with a touch of jealousy, "She's doing better than I did."

"That's OK, honey," I told him. "You have other talents. You're good at scrap-booking."

We Are The Champions

I know you've all been following the big debate about whether or not I should drive C. Peevie back to Chicago for his final championship game. I discussed it with my family: everyone was supportive, even enthusiastic. None were enthusiastic enough, however, to offer to come with us.

C. Peevie was all for it, of course, and in the end, it came down to whether I was willing to spend a significant chunk of one vacation day in the car. Since championships are rare and uplifting events--even if you lose; and as a former player myself--I was. So C. Peevie and I made the three-hour-plus sweaty drive, arriving in time to eat a sandwich and chill out for a half an hour before heading over for batting practice.

(For those of you interested in the travel details, or for future reference: It took us exactly two hours to get from Sleepy Hollow to the exit for 22nd Street south of the Loop. From 22nd Street to Jimmy John's on Irving Park, we sweated through another one hour and ten minutes of traffic.)

Everyone was surprised to see us. "I thought you were on vacation!" ChefKat exclaimed. "I am," I replied. "We're heading back up after the game." This plan was met with nods of approval mixed with a tiny bit of I-can't-believe-you're-willing-to-do-that-are-you-nuts?

But folks were glad to us--glad to see C. Peevie, I should say. More than one person told us, "We really missed him at the game on Monday." They lost, 12-8, making the series 1-1 and making a third game necessary.

"He's a key player," ChefKat's brother, Uncle D told me. "We really missed him."

I leaned toward him. "Is he really?" I fished. "He's been struggling a little at the plate."

"Yeah, he's been struggling at the plate," Uncle D said, "But he's solid in the field. We lost that game on defense, and we could have used his skills." Sigh. I didn't feel bad for going on vacation--but it validated my decision to drive in for this final game.

You can read about the dramatic conclusion of C. Peevie's little league season, and his critical part in it, on the Little League Coach. I'll post the link as soon as it's up.

UPDATE: It's up. You can read the play-by-play here.

Little League Mom Strikes (Out) Again

Hey, hey, hey, baseball fans. (Oh, my. I always start missing Harry Caray around this time of year.) Check out my new post on The Little League Coach.

Out in the blogosphere, parents and coaches are reporting that their seasons are over, and they're well into play-offs and all-stars. Not us. Our Little Leaguer is still suiting up and swinging away. We still have two regular season games and 2.5 make-up games to go.

C. Peevie caught a stinging line-drive at first base the other day, and is generally playing well in the field. He's struggling at the plate, however, which I'm sure is bringing his confidence down.

I remember what that was like. I often struggled at the plate as well--but in this 1977 game (!) apparently I was a "tour de force":

"William Tennent gained its eighth win in nine outings behind the pitching of Kathy Strobel, who is now unbeaten in four starts.

But the real tour de force belonged to sophomore second baseman Eve Meyer [AKA E. Peevie]. Starting for the first time, Meyer was a little nervous. She fumbled a couple of balls which paved the way for an early Pennridge lead.

But with Tennent down, 7-5 in the fifth inning, it was Meyer who drove home the tying runs with a single. Then in the sixth she opened the game up with a double.

The key defensive play of the game came when Monique Cousin threw out a runner at the plate--Monique was on target all the way from her left field position."

The caption reads, "Tennent's Eve Meyer shags throw as Upper Merion's Francine Collins steals second"--except they spelled my last name wrong.

Ah, those were the days.

Don't forget to check out my post on The Little League Coach.

Stumped by a Cup

I am a girl jock--or at least, I used to be. (Lately I'm a slug.) I've had experience in my years with all sorts of sporting equipment: bats and rackets; balls of every shape and size (get your mind out of the gutter); court shoes, running shoes, and cleats; baseball pants, tennis skirts, volleyball shorts, and the infamous "shiney hiney" basketball uniforms we had to wear in junior high; sports bras; goggles--you name it, I've participated in the sport and I have at least passing familiarity with the equipment.

Having a boy in Little League changed all that. I had to buy a cup for the first time. You can read about my humiliation in my guest post in The Little League Coach, entitled Cup Stories.

Little League Mom

Hey gang, guess what?! Rick McBride, the talented owner of the up-and-coming sports blog, The Little League Coach, liked my post about the heroes of summer so much that he invited me to guest post once in awhile.

Here's a link to my very first guest post, entitled The Call.

Practice on our swampy Chicago fields begins this Wednesday, and C. Peevie cannot wait to begin testing the limits of my laundering skills by sliding in those pristinely-white-for-twelve-seconds baseball pants every chance he gets.

Let the games begin!

Heroes of Summer

There's a group of guys, and a few women, who willingly give up ten, 15, 20 hours a week--maybe more--every week for three or four months, to teach a bunch of kids about baseball. These guys in general, and my kids' little league coaches in particular, are the heroes of summer.

"Nice try!" they say, encouragingly, when the throw to first base hits the dirt in front of the second baseman, or beans a spectator.

"Keep your eye on the ball!" they repeat 10,000 times over the course of a season.

"Keep your head in the game!" they urge the boy who's hunched over in left field, watching an ant lugging a dead roly-poly across the dirt, and another boy who's making honeycomb designs with cleats in the short-stop dust.

They pack, unpack, load, and carry 30 pounds of bats, balls, bases, and equipment three times a week. They make 15 phone calls every time it rains to let parents know if the game's been cancelled. They create line-ups and game plans; they calculate batting averages and ERAs; they organize snack schedules.

They make time to play with and teach and put their arms on the shoulders of other people's children. Sometimes they make good players out of them. Sometimes they make not-so-great players feel like Honus Wagner. They give every kid a chance to shine in the field.

They stand behind your child and mine in the batter's box: they position his hands on the bat handle, tap his elbow up, and demonstrate how to step into the pitch. "Step into the pitch," they remind the batter. "Don't step out of the box." When my son swings wildly, like an ambitious lepidopterist, the coach hollers optimistically, "Good try, A. The next one's yours!" They give every kid a chance to shine at the plate.

(It's hilarious that some coaches can't compartmentalize as well as others, and their day job lingo creeps into their coaching. "You got a taste of it," said Coach Paul, a chef, to a batter who hit a foul ball. "That was an appetizer. Now go for the entree." The fans on the sidelines looked at each other and shrugged. "Yeah, eat it up!" I screamed, because, hey, it doesn't really matter what you holler for encouragement, just so long as you holler.)

They're heroes because they're patient, they're kind, they're engaged. They stand with the sun in their eyes and the sweat dripping down the back of their necks, persuading an anxiety-ridden nine-year-old who changed his mind about playing baseball and would rather be home sorting Pokemon cards to stick it out because his team needs him.

They're heroes because they gather the boys in the outfield after a grim 19 - 2 loss, and remind them of everything they did right. They're heroes because they shrug off a bad call, and the kids get an object lesson in frustration management and keeping things in perspective.

Coach Lou, Coach Bob, Coach Paul, Coach Ben, Coach Matt, Coach Neil, and any coaches I've forgotten -- thanks for being a hero this summer.