Strike Three, New Batter!

Well, it's that time of year again. Yes, you guessed it, baseball season. (Did anyone else just have a Daffy Duck/Bugs Bunny flashback right there? Duck season! Rabbit season! No? Showing my age? Alrighty then.)

Baseball season usually haunts me in the form of ceaseless games on ESPN in the living room every night. Yes, being married to a jock means I have an obsessed husband with an encyclopedia of sports statistics for a brain. He probably can't tell you the difference between an IRA and a 401K, but he can tell you who won the world series in 1971. (Keep in mind, this would be before he was born.)

Yes, I know that baseball is the all American past time but, ugh, I just can't get into it. Ok, you guys run around bases trying to collect points, all the while staying away from the big bad man with the ball. Here, take this little stick and try to whack this projectile that's hurtling towards you at 90 miles per hour! But, if there's no running or whacking, sit in this underground cell like you're being punished for something. And it's the letters thing: RBI, HR, MVP, AB, GIDP, 3B......who can keep up with all these abbreviations? (Other than Captain Encyclopedia.)

As if the constant barrage of ESPN baseball wasn't bad enough, baby boy's starting his first year of t-ball. T-ball is the preschool of baseball. It's for beginners, teaching them the basics. It's also not for the faint of heart. Because these kids are 5 and 6 years old. They have the attention span of a gnat, and these coaches put them in left field for the 20 minutes it takes to run through the other team's batting order. That's if you're lucky and don't have thumbs McGee on your team taking 16 tries to hit the ball off the tee. But, I'm the MOM. I have to be supportive and say things like, "Oh honey, of course I can't wait to come to your game!" instead of, "Of course I'll come to your game if there's wine and Prozac."

So, you go sit through the games in April wearing winter coats, rain jackets, and 3 pairs of socks. By June, you're sweating, sunburned, and bug bitten. It doesn't even gradually transition you. One game it's snowing, the next you're in a tank top. Damn fickle weather.

Maybe I'm just not into sports because I myself have 2 left feet and the coordination of a six foot three 12 year old with arms swinging wildly about, knocking his head off low lying light fixtures. Or maybe I'm crazy. I guess it could be worse though. Baseball may not be as cool and exciting as football, but it's not as bad as watching golf either!