Baseball and Motherhood

Billionaire owners and millionaire players finally have come to an agreement about when professional baseball will resume. From the time they quit playing in mid-March until now it has been a ridiculous exchange between two sides who wouldn't budge. Fans began to drop away because it seemed so silly that no one could come up with a plan. Now the decision agreed on is to be 60 games to start on July 28th or 29th. A usual season is 162 games(too long if you ask me), so this is going to be a shocker in some ways. Will there be a .400 hitter? Maybe. All spring training sites have been closed, so the question of where they will start to practice is a little vague now. But rules--yes, they have rules. If it is an extra inning game, there will be a runner on second base to start the inning. This is to stop any of the marathon games they had last year that lasted until 2 a.m.  But in regards to the virus, the rules are really picky: no licking of fingers by the pitchers, no touching bases with the hands, and no spitting. No spitting? You can't have a pro game without spitting because every player, except maybe the kid who gets the bats, spits. I don't know who the official "spit watcher" will be, but I don't want his or her job.

Baseball has been in almost every family in some form, especially with Little League. My boys played, and it was something to do after school was out. When Ben was playing one year, he had a great coach who taught the team to double steal(the league outlawed it after that year). One hot June day we were watching the game, and he got a double and turned it into a triple by sliding into third base. As we cheered, the young assistant coach went roaring out to the base and scooped Ben into his arms, not an easy feat because the coach was tall and lanky. "Wow," I thought, "that's alot of admiration for a triple." But when he turned to face the stands, I saw the jagged hole in Ben's jeans and the blood. He had slid into the metal stake that held the bases in place(the leagued outlawed those after that year)and had ripped open his knee and leg. We threw him into the car and went to the ER where we watched as they began to carefully clean out the wound so there would be no infection, stop the bleeding, and get ready to do stitches. I happened to look over at Loyd and saw he was the color of Elmer's Glue, about ready to hit the floor. So I took him outside, got a chair, gave instructions, and came back in to watch as they took care of Ben.

Later it dawned on me that mothers do that sort of thing. We clean up when the kid has thrown up in our shoes in the closet. We rock the baby all night when he has Fifth Disease(there is one) and then in the morning fix breakfast and lunches for the rest of the kids. We sit on those hard wooden bleachers to watch any sport, especially when the temperature is 125 with not a spot of shade in sight. We listen to them practicing a trombone in the beginning when it is so awful that it scares small animals. We just do it.

So here's a salute to all mothers but especially:

to my mother who scooped me up when a doctor ignored my aching, infected ear and drove 35 miles to find another doctor who would put me in Baylor Hospital and operate;

to Loyd's mother who was a 23-year-old widow with a baby and went back to school in the 1920's to make a living;

to Shannon and Laurissa's mother who took on the responsibility of a single parent with 2 young daughters;

to Andersen's mother who helped him have a happy, productive life until his poor, battered heart gave out;

to Brent's mother who made sure there was a board with magnetic plastic letters near his bed so he could communicate when Guillian-Barre had almost taken away his life and taken away his ability to speak clearly;

to Randy's mother who tried with every fiber of her body to live a few more days so she wouldn't die on his birthday.

To every mother everywhere: You are the real Most Valuable Player.