Moms in the Bleachers
I miss them, those moms I've met in baseball.
We're winding up the third baseball league for the year. My younger son is an avid player. We have coaches. Our coaches have coaches. There are lessons and camps and clinics. I'm thrilled he's so passionate about it, but, frankly, my husband and I could have used the same amount of money for a house in the Hamptons. I would have considered that trade, if it weren't so great to go the games for reasons I would have expected and some I never would have anticipated.
Since March, I've been sitting with various groups of moms on his teams. Seeing him smash a ball to the outfield is fantastic. But the collective wisdom I'm getting from baseball moms, as they say in the commercials, is priceless.
Last spring I spent time with the varsity moms whose sons play on the Clayton High School Greyhounds. Our son was the only sophomore. Initially, I wasn't looking forward to it, not because I wasn't thrilled he was on the team, but because I hardly knew anyone. As a working mom, it's often difficult to connect with other parents. Because of my job I see far more mug shots of people who have committed crimes than I see Clayton parents. High school only makes it more difficult. Kids drive. Sons don't need their mothers to make social arrangements. I've always depended on the handful of mothers I knew well, whose sons were friends with my sons, to learn what was going on.
Last spring, though, my wonderful nephew, a senior, decided to play baseball for one more year, so gratefully my sister would be at the games. She made sure I knew everyone since she had many years of watching Greyhound baseball, with two sons who had played for the team, behind her. It's not that I exactly ditched work to watch him play. (I am writing for the KSDK website after all.) But I moved my schedule around artfully so I could cheer him on as the second baseman or d.h. That means designated hitter. I have learned something in 15 years of watching sons run around a diamond.
Don't get me wrong. The only thing as interesting to me as watching one son play baseball is listening to the other one call the games. However, during the high school season I tried to use my time wisely, finding out from the moms on the bleachers about what was going on at school, or how difficult it had been to apply to a raft of colleges, or who was taking whom to prom.
You can learn a lot through seven innings. You can get a lot of great advice. Or commiserate. Or just laugh at how incredibly amazing, fun and sometimes downright stupid high school boys can be. I miss those moms of the graduating Greyhounds. They were clever and funny and full of wisdom.
In the summer our son was on a select team, the Tigers, in the St. Louis Amateur Baseball Association. It was a challenging experience for both of us. Our son got to step up his game in a compressed season, surrounded by other very skilled teammates and competitors. The boys were from various communities. I anticipated another bleacher filled with strangers.
Once we got our roster, though, we got an e-mail from another parent. She was reminding us our boys had been close friends in daycare. We'd lost touch and both of us had moved.
Bingo! Another great mom on the horizon with whom to watch baseball.
Running to games all over the metropolitan area, Tiger moms were a loyal group. We always had a handful watching, and exchanging information about teenage boys.
Like the Greyhound moms, they, too, were articulate, funny and smart.
(Just to be fair, the dads were wonderful, too.)
We talked about everything from driving, to dating or whatever it is teenagers do socially now, to studying, to college selections. I even actually saw a lot of what happened on the field. But if a Tiger mom ever missed a crucial play, someone always had enough information so she would be able to compliment her son accurately.
The summer season slipped away quickly and my opportunity to visit with those moms did, too. We went back to our hectic school and work schedules.
Fall brought "fall ball," less intense leagues populated by kids who want to keep up their baseball skills, but do their homework, too. It doesn't quite have the same magic or commitment, or nearly as many parents watching the games. The opportunities to connect with moms like the ones from the Greyhounds or Tigers just weren't there.
So, now our son will concentrate on getting ready for next spring on his high school team. In the meantime I'll be hoping for a new group of moms in spring and summer, who want to talk about the complexities of raising 16-and-17 year old boys.
Baseball is known as America's pastime. Who would have know it's about friendship and enduring wisdom from moms as well?
