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."
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Distance to Empty
I told you about the Big Game, but I didn't tell you the story about the trip back to South Haven after the big game. It will either make you think to yourself, "Oh, that sounds like something I'd do" or--and this is statistically more probable--it will make you think, "Geez, I'm glad I'm not married to that idiot."
C. Peevie and I hung out at the post-championship pizza party for about half an hour before we headed back out of town for the last day of vacation. It was about nine p.m. Chicago time when we hit the road. The low-gas indicator lit up on the dashboard as I pulled out, but I recklessly thought to myself, "There's no way I'm going to pay Cook County prices for gas when I'll be in Indiana in half an hour."
You know where this is headed, don't you? Uh huh.
I switched the navigator buttons over to the DTE setting. That's "distance to empty," which estimates the number of miles you can drive before you stupidly stall out and curse your stupidity on the side of the stupid highway because you've stupidly run out of stupid gas. I figured I had a handle on it; I was watching the DTE digits carefully. If I get too close to zero, I thought, I'll just pull over and get some expensive gas.
So as I was driving along, the DTE numbers were going down, exactly as logic would predict; but I was getting close to the Skyway, and from there it's only a few miles to the Indiana border. Gary was within smelling distance at this point, so I was confident that I'd find a gas station well before we hit zero.
[Confidence does not bear any kind of relationship to common sense or intelligence, or even to reality, it seems. Confidence is not a reliable predictor of success. Confidence is like frosting: it makes the cake look good--but if the cake is no good, people won't eat it.
OK, I don't know if that made any sense at all, but I googled "confidence + anecdotes" and all I got was about a billion links to anecdotes about how having confidence leads to success, so I had to make up my own damn analogy.]
Meanwhile, back to my story. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was approaching Gary on the Indiana Tollroad, and the DTE meter had dropped to about seven. No sweat, right? The first Gary exit was closed, so we kept going to the second. C. Peevie was beginning to get anxious as DTE had now hit four.
As we exited into beautiful downtown Gary, it was about 9:45 pm-ish. There was no gas station in sight. There was nothing but darkened warehouses in sight, as a matter of fact. "Is this Gary?" C. Peevie asked.
"Yup," I said, continuing down the deserted street, hopeful in spite of the absence of any signs of a gas station.
"It reminds me of Gotham City," C. Peevie said.
"You mean because it's dark and bleak and deserted?" I asked.
"Exactly," C. P. said, trepidation creeping into his voice.
Eventually, I turned the gas-sucking mini-van around, cursing my stupidity for having such a fuel-inefficient vehicle--but not yet cursing myself for not getting gas in Chicago; and at the same time suggesting to C. Peevie that he start to pray.
We headed back onto the highway, and almost immediately saw a sign for gas in two miles. Again, with more confidence than Danny Ocean, I figured, no sweat, we've still got three miles on the DTE gauge.
Two miles later, we reach the turn-off for 94, and I take the exit to head toward South Haven. "Um, Mom?" C. Peevie asks. "Isn't that the gas station down there? Why are we driving away from it?"
"Uh oh," I said. "I guess the sign for two miles to gas was for people staying on the tollroad."
DTE: 2 miles.
"Mom, what happens if we run out of gas?" said C. Peevie nervously.
"Well, honey, we'll just make a phone call and wait, or we'll walk to a gas station," I said, still optimistic. "But don't worry about that yet. We're still golden. But you might want to say another little prayer."
DTE: 1 mile.
"Mom, we're down to one mile left," C. Peevie said.
"I know, honey, but look--there's a sign for gas coming up!" I told him. The sign said that Portage was a mere four miles away, and--again with the confidence--I knew that the DTE gauge typically registered a conservative estimate of the number of miles, and gave no credit for fumes.
DTE: Zero.
"Mom," C. P. said, making it two syllables. "Zero, Mom."
"We're still moving, C. Peevie," I reassured him. "As long as we're still moving, there's a chance we might make it." My confident tone belied the pounding of my heart and the knot in my gut. Hey--it felt just like being at a breath-takingly close championship little league game!
Do cars use less gas at slower rates of speed? I wondered. I thought I remembered hearing during the "55 Saves Lives" campaign back in the Dark Ages that better gas mileage was a fringe benefit of slower speed limits, so I started conserving gas by slowing down.
"We're slowing down," C. Peevie observed. "I think we're out of gas."
But we kept going, and finally, three miles later, we coasted into the Marathon station in Portage. Gas was a scant $3.89 per gallon--fully 45 cents less than we would have paid in Chicago. I showed those Cook County politicians who were always raising my taxes.
And all it cost me was about four years of my life, foreshortened by anxiety-induced tachycardia.
"Well, C., that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said happily.
"No, it was not," C. Peevie said, all grumpy-like. "I was scared to death."
Some people have no sense of adventure.
C. Peevie and I hung out at the post-championship pizza party for about half an hour before we headed back out of town for the last day of vacation. It was about nine p.m. Chicago time when we hit the road. The low-gas indicator lit up on the dashboard as I pulled out, but I recklessly thought to myself, "There's no way I'm going to pay Cook County prices for gas when I'll be in Indiana in half an hour."
You know where this is headed, don't you? Uh huh.
I switched the navigator buttons over to the DTE setting. That's "distance to empty," which estimates the number of miles you can drive before you stupidly stall out and curse your stupidity on the side of the stupid highway because you've stupidly run out of stupid gas. I figured I had a handle on it; I was watching the DTE digits carefully. If I get too close to zero, I thought, I'll just pull over and get some expensive gas.
So as I was driving along, the DTE numbers were going down, exactly as logic would predict; but I was getting close to the Skyway, and from there it's only a few miles to the Indiana border. Gary was within smelling distance at this point, so I was confident that I'd find a gas station well before we hit zero.
[Confidence does not bear any kind of relationship to common sense or intelligence, or even to reality, it seems. Confidence is not a reliable predictor of success. Confidence is like frosting: it makes the cake look good--but if the cake is no good, people won't eat it.
OK, I don't know if that made any sense at all, but I googled "confidence + anecdotes" and all I got was about a billion links to anecdotes about how having confidence leads to success, so I had to make up my own damn analogy.]
Meanwhile, back to my story. Where was I? Oh yeah, I was approaching Gary on the Indiana Tollroad, and the DTE meter had dropped to about seven. No sweat, right? The first Gary exit was closed, so we kept going to the second. C. Peevie was beginning to get anxious as DTE had now hit four.
As we exited into beautiful downtown Gary, it was about 9:45 pm-ish. There was no gas station in sight. There was nothing but darkened warehouses in sight, as a matter of fact. "Is this Gary?" C. Peevie asked.
"Yup," I said, continuing down the deserted street, hopeful in spite of the absence of any signs of a gas station.
"It reminds me of Gotham City," C. Peevie said.
"You mean because it's dark and bleak and deserted?" I asked.
"Exactly," C. P. said, trepidation creeping into his voice.
Eventually, I turned the gas-sucking mini-van around, cursing my stupidity for having such a fuel-inefficient vehicle--but not yet cursing myself for not getting gas in Chicago; and at the same time suggesting to C. Peevie that he start to pray.
We headed back onto the highway, and almost immediately saw a sign for gas in two miles. Again, with more confidence than Danny Ocean, I figured, no sweat, we've still got three miles on the DTE gauge.
Two miles later, we reach the turn-off for 94, and I take the exit to head toward South Haven. "Um, Mom?" C. Peevie asks. "Isn't that the gas station down there? Why are we driving away from it?"
"Uh oh," I said. "I guess the sign for two miles to gas was for people staying on the tollroad."
DTE: 2 miles.
"Mom, what happens if we run out of gas?" said C. Peevie nervously.
"Well, honey, we'll just make a phone call and wait, or we'll walk to a gas station," I said, still optimistic. "But don't worry about that yet. We're still golden. But you might want to say another little prayer."
DTE: 1 mile.
"Mom, we're down to one mile left," C. Peevie said.
"I know, honey, but look--there's a sign for gas coming up!" I told him. The sign said that Portage was a mere four miles away, and--again with the confidence--I knew that the DTE gauge typically registered a conservative estimate of the number of miles, and gave no credit for fumes.
DTE: Zero.
"Mom," C. P. said, making it two syllables. "Zero, Mom."
"We're still moving, C. Peevie," I reassured him. "As long as we're still moving, there's a chance we might make it." My confident tone belied the pounding of my heart and the knot in my gut. Hey--it felt just like being at a breath-takingly close championship little league game!
Do cars use less gas at slower rates of speed? I wondered. I thought I remembered hearing during the "55 Saves Lives" campaign back in the Dark Ages that better gas mileage was a fringe benefit of slower speed limits, so I started conserving gas by slowing down.
"We're slowing down," C. Peevie observed. "I think we're out of gas."
But we kept going, and finally, three miles later, we coasted into the Marathon station in Portage. Gas was a scant $3.89 per gallon--fully 45 cents less than we would have paid in Chicago. I showed those Cook County politicians who were always raising my taxes.
And all it cost me was about four years of my life, foreshortened by anxiety-induced tachycardia.
"Well, C., that was an adventure, wasn't it?" I said happily.
"No, it was not," C. Peevie said, all grumpy-like. "I was scared to death."
Some people have no sense of adventure.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
80 Steps: A Poem About Being Out of Shape
80 steps.
Four landings
with benches. Thank God.
Down is bad enough.
But up?
Bring oxygen tank.
Mr. Peevie grins
and runs past me
up the stairs.
The show-off.
I hate him.
Maybe he'll trip.
At the bottom
we kick off crocs and
cross a soft, sandy beach.
At the top,
if I make it,
the pool, the playground, the cottage.
Maybe I'll just stay on the beach a little longer,
and postpone the inevitable climb
up 80 steps.
Four landings
with benches. Thank God.
Down is bad enough.
But up?
Bring oxygen tank.
Mr. Peevie grins
and runs past me
up the stairs.
The show-off.
I hate him.
Maybe he'll trip.
At the bottom
we kick off crocs and
cross a soft, sandy beach.
At the top,
if I make it,
the pool, the playground, the cottage.
Maybe I'll just stay on the beach a little longer,
and postpone the inevitable climb
up 80 steps.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
The Vacation Effect
This vacation thing is really great, on so many levels, and in multitudinous ways. I know I wrote about the Vacation Effect last year (since we were at a water park I referred to it as Zero-Depth Stress), but I can't help myself. It bears repeating.
I feel like I enjoy my kids more on vacation than I do in real life. I have so much more physical and emotional energy for them, and so much more patience than I normally do, because I'm not expending it on work and household crap and homework.
Yesterday Mr. Peevie and C. Peevie went for a long bike ride, about 25 miles. I asked C.P. about it later, and he said it was really great. I could tell he was thrilled to have his dad all to himself for four-plus hours.
Later, he asked me to sit on the couch with him, while we both read--just to get in some together time with mom. It made my heart melt. While we were sitting there, each immersed in our own worlds of fiction, he looked over at me and said, "I have the best family in the world."
I put my arm around his shoulder and squeezed. "I'm glad you think so, buddy," I said. "Ow, ow!" he said, pulling away and wincing. He had badly bruised his arm and shoulder while driving very aggressively on the go-cart track earlier that day, and causing a collision with another too-aggressive driver. Me.
Best Mom Ever.
We're less stressed about bedtimes than usual, because we don't have to be anywhere in the morning. When A. Peevie asks me to take him to play hoops, I don't tell him I've got too much laundry or too many dishes to do. When M. Peevie desires one more dip in the pool on the way home from the beach, I'm all hey! what the heck! we're on vacation! We can do what we want.
This place, Sleepy Hollow, is really a fabulous place to experience the Vacation Effect. Cute cottages; grassy, spacious landscaping; beach access; pool; organized activities for kids. Tonight, after all 11 of us played baseball on the lawn between our cottages, we all headed down for our own personal campfire on the beach.
Aaaaaahhhhhhhh. Vacation. It makes me think I might never yell at my kids again.
I feel like I enjoy my kids more on vacation than I do in real life. I have so much more physical and emotional energy for them, and so much more patience than I normally do, because I'm not expending it on work and household crap and homework.
Yesterday Mr. Peevie and C. Peevie went for a long bike ride, about 25 miles. I asked C.P. about it later, and he said it was really great. I could tell he was thrilled to have his dad all to himself for four-plus hours.
Later, he asked me to sit on the couch with him, while we both read--just to get in some together time with mom. It made my heart melt. While we were sitting there, each immersed in our own worlds of fiction, he looked over at me and said, "I have the best family in the world."
I put my arm around his shoulder and squeezed. "I'm glad you think so, buddy," I said. "Ow, ow!" he said, pulling away and wincing. He had badly bruised his arm and shoulder while driving very aggressively on the go-cart track earlier that day, and causing a collision with another too-aggressive driver. Me.
Best Mom Ever.
We're less stressed about bedtimes than usual, because we don't have to be anywhere in the morning. When A. Peevie asks me to take him to play hoops, I don't tell him I've got too much laundry or too many dishes to do. When M. Peevie desires one more dip in the pool on the way home from the beach, I'm all hey! what the heck! we're on vacation! We can do what we want.
This place, Sleepy Hollow, is really a fabulous place to experience the Vacation Effect. Cute cottages; grassy, spacious landscaping; beach access; pool; organized activities for kids. Tonight, after all 11 of us played baseball on the lawn between our cottages, we all headed down for our own personal campfire on the beach.
Aaaaaahhhhhhhh. Vacation. It makes me think I might never yell at my kids again.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dateline: Sleepy Hollow
Dateline: Sleepy Hollow.
Because we postponed our departure until after C. Peevie's first championship game, we didn't arrive in South Haven until after 7 p.m. After unpacking the car and visiting with the cousins, we all finally crashed sometime after 11 p.m.
And then began the first perfect day of vacation:
Sleeping in until 10 a.m. while Aunt Jenny flipped pancakes for the kids.
Playing on the playground: Pushing kids on the rickety merry-go-round that groaned loud, metallic groans when the weight was not evenly distributed. Dun-dunning the Indiana Jones theme music while kids hung on the sliding bar and swung themselves across the pit of snapping alligators waiting hungrily below. Scorching our bottoms on the sizzling hot metal slide.
Playing on the beach and exploring the tiny creek that empties into the lake. "Mom," M. Peevie exclaimed, looking out at Lake Michigan, "it looks like the ocean!" And she was not wrong--the lake stretched out infinitely, it seemed; and the waves valiantly imitated ocean waves, surging and crashing with enough force to make moms worry when little blonde heads dipped down for more than a second.
Swimming in the warm-but-not-too-warm pool for hours. Teaching M. Peevie to dive. Teaching A. Peevie to tread water.
Nap. Ahhhh, nap.
Grocery shopping. Because, you know, after all that playing, people got to eat.
Dinner with the whole family. Cooked by someone else. Cleaned up by someone else.
(Slight guilt trip over not helping to clean up the dinner dishes.)
More playing: Baseball on the lawn, complete with white rubber bases set 15 feet apart; Spongebob video games, and movie trivia.
Kids to bed by 10. Blogging time for me.
Could there be a more perfect vacation day? What's a perfect vacation day for you?
Because we postponed our departure until after C. Peevie's first championship game, we didn't arrive in South Haven until after 7 p.m. After unpacking the car and visiting with the cousins, we all finally crashed sometime after 11 p.m.
And then began the first perfect day of vacation:
Sleeping in until 10 a.m. while Aunt Jenny flipped pancakes for the kids.
Playing on the playground: Pushing kids on the rickety merry-go-round that groaned loud, metallic groans when the weight was not evenly distributed. Dun-dunning the Indiana Jones theme music while kids hung on the sliding bar and swung themselves across the pit of snapping alligators waiting hungrily below. Scorching our bottoms on the sizzling hot metal slide.
Playing on the beach and exploring the tiny creek that empties into the lake. "Mom," M. Peevie exclaimed, looking out at Lake Michigan, "it looks like the ocean!" And she was not wrong--the lake stretched out infinitely, it seemed; and the waves valiantly imitated ocean waves, surging and crashing with enough force to make moms worry when little blonde heads dipped down for more than a second.
Swimming in the warm-but-not-too-warm pool for hours. Teaching M. Peevie to dive. Teaching A. Peevie to tread water.
Nap. Ahhhh, nap.
Grocery shopping. Because, you know, after all that playing, people got to eat.
Dinner with the whole family. Cooked by someone else. Cleaned up by someone else.
(Slight guilt trip over not helping to clean up the dinner dishes.)
More playing: Baseball on the lawn, complete with white rubber bases set 15 feet apart; Spongebob video games, and movie trivia.
Kids to bed by 10. Blogging time for me.
Could there be a more perfect vacation day? What's a perfect vacation day for you?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Suiting Up for Championship Play
Check out my latest post on The Little League Coach. Especially check out the Coach's comment on my post about missing championship playoffs. "Team comes first," he says, and Little League families should plan their vacays around the season and post-season schedule.
Coach, Coach, Coach. You are a silly, silly man. You must live on the planet I Tell My Family (Including Extended Family) What's What and That's That--which is in a far-off galaxy from my home planet.
There are ten million reasons why The Little League Coach is wrong on this one, not the least of which is gas being nine bajillion dollars a gallon. Round trip from my house to Sleepy Hollow is about 135 miles. With a not-very-fuel-efficient vehicle, and the highest gas prices in the nation, that's $70 in gas alone.
Granted, seventy bucks is not a huge amount of money--but when you look at it as the cost of playing a single, seven-inning baseball game, it seems a little crazy.
The South Haven-to-Chicago traffic jam is another consideration. Mapquest says the trip is about two to two-and-a-half hours, which is fairly accurate for those of us headed away from the city. But Mr. Peevie and I are considering buying a hot air balloon to carry us and our vehicle across the lake in order to avoid the bumper-to-bumper ride home on Sunday. It looked that bad from the outbound lanes.
Oh, and I almost forgot: The AC is broken in our van. (Remember, it was one of the Season of Repair items a few posts back. Turns out it's not just a Freon problem; it's a catastrophic failure problem that would cost $800 to fix. Not gonna happen.) Anyway, imagine THAT two-and-a-half-hour car ride. Then imagine it again--and remember--the prize at the end is not a week's vacation, but a two-hour baseball game. Are you really that committed to your Little League team?
But that's just me. What do you think? Should commitment to your team take priority? What's the cut-off cost, in dollars and opportunities? Let the Coach and me know what you think.
Coach, Coach, Coach. You are a silly, silly man. You must live on the planet I Tell My Family (Including Extended Family) What's What and That's That--which is in a far-off galaxy from my home planet.
There are ten million reasons why The Little League Coach is wrong on this one, not the least of which is gas being nine bajillion dollars a gallon. Round trip from my house to Sleepy Hollow is about 135 miles. With a not-very-fuel-efficient vehicle, and the highest gas prices in the nation, that's $70 in gas alone.
Granted, seventy bucks is not a huge amount of money--but when you look at it as the cost of playing a single, seven-inning baseball game, it seems a little crazy.
The South Haven-to-Chicago traffic jam is another consideration. Mapquest says the trip is about two to two-and-a-half hours, which is fairly accurate for those of us headed away from the city. But Mr. Peevie and I are considering buying a hot air balloon to carry us and our vehicle across the lake in order to avoid the bumper-to-bumper ride home on Sunday. It looked that bad from the outbound lanes.
Oh, and I almost forgot: The AC is broken in our van. (Remember, it was one of the Season of Repair items a few posts back. Turns out it's not just a Freon problem; it's a catastrophic failure problem that would cost $800 to fix. Not gonna happen.) Anyway, imagine THAT two-and-a-half-hour car ride. Then imagine it again--and remember--the prize at the end is not a week's vacation, but a two-hour baseball game. Are you really that committed to your Little League team?
But that's just me. What do you think? Should commitment to your team take priority? What's the cut-off cost, in dollars and opportunities? Let the Coach and me know what you think.
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