Batter Up!

I have written many times about the competitive nature of suburbia. From lawn care to exterior illumination, there is no end to how far we of the manicured lawns and three car garages will go to out do each other. We'll even use our kids as pawns in our twisted games.

It's softball season here in Stepford, and "Daughter" is ready to play. I'll say up front that "Daughter" is not the best athlete in the world, and I don't expect her to be. She plays softball, soccer, and has started to learn to golf. She enjoys all of them and I would classify her in the average to a little above category depending on the day. My rational mind tells me that as long as she's having fun and trying her best, that should be enough. We all know how well I listen to my rational mind.

"Daughter" is on a team being coached by one of our neighbors. Some of her friends are on the team, so she's happy. There is something about watching nine and ten year old girls play sports. It's like watching a zombie movie. Most of them are content to look at the sky and gossip with their pals. They go about the game in a lackadaisical fashion, worrying about sweating or getting too dirty. There are always a couple who are really into it, but we all know that they are future lacrosse players or P.E. teachers. This laid back approach is fine for the girls, but horrible for the dads that are coaching or watching. We had been told early on that the pressure to make high school teams started at a young age. This is coming into focus more at each practice.

The coaches and dads are constantly shouting directions at the girls. Granted, some of the girls need constant direction. Seriously, they throw like girls, and lack the Pete Rose, Charlie Hustle gene. We do tend to overload the girls with our helpful tips. You can see steam coming out of the kids ears as they try to process all of the minutiae that their dream deprived dads shout to them. I guess all of the dads forget that if we were so good, we'd be pros instead of pushing our little angels toward the thrill of victory. Each dad secretly lives with the fear that his girl will be the worst on the team. You know the one, everyone let's out a little sigh when the kid comes to bat, or holds their breath when a ball is hit their way. Nobody wants their kid to be the lowly right fielder, exiled to the Mongolia of the softball field.

There have been whisperings on the fields of girls going to private coaches for hitting or fielding in hopes of improving their skills and increasing their chances of making a traveling team, which we have been told in conspiratorial tones, is the gateway to a high school team. How ridiculous! We never needed private coaches. We just went out and played baseball or softball. Some kids were good and some stunk. If you stunk, you either played more and got better, or you stayed in your basement playing Dungeons and Dragons, wearing your trench coat and reading comic books.

Sure it's ridiculous. Until my irrational mind takes over. "You know, I probably could have played college or pro ball if only I had the right training." Oh no. I should never listen to the voices in my head. In true episodic fashion....Tomorrow..."Daughter and the Batting Coach." Later...Brian