Baseball: a tiny love letter

Baseball is a funny game. It’s all hanging around, waiting waiting, and then suddenly there’s this burst of frantic action and it’s all to play for and your heart is pounding as you wait to see if it will all go so right or so wrong.

And that’s just for me, sitting on the bleachers, watching my kid.

Yesterday’s game was almost like being on a date with my husband. I brought cold spicy noodles and we had a picnic, because games are always at dinnertime and while you can buy burgers and hot dogs and even chicken breasts and nachos, I really don’t want to make a habit of that. Mabel was playing happily on the playground with the assorted other siblings and unwanted children of the baseball crowd (I mean that in the nicest possible way), and we were actually able to sit beside each other and watch the game and pass snarky remarks about the other people in the fading sunlight and it was all very pleasant.

And then Dash was up to bat, and he swung at the ball and connected, and dropped the bat and ran to first base and it was all on. A couple of batters later, there he was on third. As he made it to home before the ball got him, I woo-hoo-d and yelled at the top of my lungs (causing B to look at me in mock horror and declaim that he hardly knew who I was any more).

I’m under no illusions as to the volume of my voice – which I have in recent years learned doesn’t travel nearly as far as I think it does, no matter how loud it sounds in my head – but I’d say it carried at least three feet. The people as far away as two rows in front probably even heard me. Not so much the players on the field, but there were three other large dads with deep booming voices who were taking up the slack on that account.

That was the high point of the game. He nearly did it again later but the batter was caught out and it was the third strike and so they all had to change over and Dash’s dash was for naught. It toys with the heart, this baseball, picks you up and drops you like a ragdoll just when you think it will all work out.

Still. As dates go, we take what we can get. The noodles, and the company, were good.

A game of machine pitch baseball

Old photo; wrong field. This year’s location is less photogenic.

 

2 thoughts on “Baseball: a tiny love letter

  1. Pingback: Irish Parenting Bloggers | Baseball: a tiny love letter

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