Where For Art Thou, Baseball?

My life will be significantly different this summer. My high-schooler has decided he's had enough of high school sports. And my almost nine-year-old has decided if his brother ain't playin', he ain't playin', neither.

That means no baseball.

It's taking a while for this to sink in. I mean, I could still go to games and watch. But that's not really what baseball season meant to me.

Baseball was sweating my ass off as the fattest (and probably oldest, I reckon) mom working in the Snack Shack. Doling out nachoes and hot dogs and shivering with revulsion when I learned the secrets of the Snack Shack nacho cheese and hot dogs. Let's just say there's no guarantee that cheese or that dog is fresher than say, last week.

Baseball was interacting with the parents of the other players. Some I like a whole lot. Some, not so much. I'm sure they felt the same way about me. But they missed out on making friends with a fabulously funny gal (right?)

Baseball was figuring out how I could get out of work early enough to get my son to his game or practice.

Baseball was waiting -- waiting for practice to be over. waiting for the game to start. waiting to see if my son would even get in the game. Waiting for a plateful of nachoes from the Snack Shack.

Baseball was worry. Worry when the phone rang with a call from the coach saying my son had been hurt yet again. Worry that the shot to the head would hurt his brain, which I am counting on for med school. Worry that my son just didn't seem to be all that dedicated or interested in getting better or playing more.

Of course, that turned out to be true. And now that I think about it, it might just be fun to spend a summer going to a few baseball games as a SPECTATOR, not a PARENT.

I will miss the nachoes, though.