What is it about parenting that instantly makes us ponder questions like, “I wonder what sport they’ll play”, or “I wonder what instrument they’ll play”, or “I wonder what disease they’ll cure?” And we’re serious about these questions. Especially when it comes to sports. It’s like, before they have even learned to feed themselves, we’ve drafted them onto the 2035 roster for the Seahawks or we’ve had Giants replica jerseys made with their last name and future number stitched to the back. The thing is, infant and toddler milestones aren’t marked by future athletic potential. Baby books don’t cite the 7 to 12 month range as being able to, “use a raking grasp, babble, and turn a double play.” After years of teaching high school kids I have come to the very strong realization that kids don’t always grow up to love the same things that their parents love. I hope this knowledge helps me to allow freedom in my kids’ exploration of interests. Whether Emily wants to study art, Grant wants to enroll in drama, or Mackinley wants to be a wrestler (there is probably a strong possibility for this one), I hope I have the mindset to allow them to fall in love with the things that interest them.

Now. This doesn’t mean I don’t think about the possibility of my kids growing up to have a love for baseball or soccer. As two former collegiate athletes, my husband and I share a strong passion for sports. So, we made a pact that if they wanted to try it, we would let them. Emily has taken a whirl at softball, gymnastics, swimming, and color guard. When she wanted to stop one sport and try the next, we let her have that freedom. The problem is, at the age of two, kids don’t typically walk up to you and say, “Hey mom, can I tryout for recreational soccer?” So when G turned two and was old enough to participate in the local soccer league, we figured we would make that decision for him. I think you know how this one goes.

I mean it started out cute. For games, G would have his adorable blue jersey on, those tiny little cleats that are oh so cute strapped to his feet, and soccer shorts that went to his ankles. Adorable right? Well the adorableness of that lasted about 4 minutes into the game. At first, he was more than excited to run amongst the mass of tiny humans all fighting for the ball, kicking it in the wrong direction, tripping over each other, and giggling with laughter. But the excitement of that wore off quickly and all of sudden all he wanted to do was either:

1. Hold players’ hands and skip around
2. Walk off the field, sit in the shade, and play in the dirt
3. Run onto the 12 and under soccer field that was in the middle of their game

Each and every time we attempted to walk him back to the field, we had to bribe him with something bigger and more dazzling. Basically by the end of soccer season I owed him 14 new tractors, Dusty Crophopper making an appearance on Christmas, and “Jack” on his 16th birthday. Jack being Ryan’s ‘68 Chevelle. You get the idea. Our coach was basically superhuman. Knowledgeable about the game, organized, great sense of humor, and quite possibly the most patient human on the planet. Coach Grant, if you ever read this, you deserve an award for volunteering to coach that season.  

Because of his schedule, Ryan missed most games and of course, those were the days with the most epic meltdowns. Why is it that every time I take my own children out in public by myself, they seem to be the O-N-L-Y ones having a meltdown? And not only that, but every mom in sight (except for my godsend of a sister-in-law) seems to give me that sideways glance like their kid has never in their life had a public meltdown. In reality, they should be playing 2Pac, throwing dollar bills at me to buy a bottle of champagne, while yelling, “You got this mama!” I know that would make me feel better…

A year has passed since soccer and so once again, in our infinite wisdom, we decided to give recreational sports another go. This time with t-ball. I will say that the format for “Little Sluggers” in our town is perfect for 3 and 4 year olds. Two practices, no need for fancy equipment, and four short games, none of which are on the weekend. These “games” are 3 innings of extremely relaxed t-ball. Basically they let each kid on the batting team take a whack off the tee and then run the bases while the other team fields the ball.

Now, I must say that t-ball is highly more entertaining and less stressful for us than soccer was. Maybe that’s because being a year older really does make a difference, or that so far…my kid isn’t the one walking off the field or eating dirt. Yet. Shout out to those mamas. I’ll grab my dollar bills and my “All Eyez on Me” CD and meet you at the next game. I got your back.   

Parents are highly encouraged to be on the field directing the little humans to bases and help them get the ball to first base. If you take a step back and watch, it’s probably the most epic thing you will ever see. The batting team usually has three to four kids hanging off the backstop fence, a few sitting down eating snacks, one or two trying to field balls that the opposing team is supposed to be fielding, and at least one crier. After batting, most kids run to the center of the infield, past the base into the open field, or to their parents.

The scene on the field is even better. You’ve got a few sitting on the pitcher’s mound which is basically a pile of dirt that they’re throwing into the air or at each other, a few running in circles as their parents chase after them, a herd of tiny cleats tackling each other trying to get the ball, one lone player on a base staring at the sky, and at least 3-4 criers. It’s freaking amazing.

It’s basically one of those scenes that as a parent, you will remember forever. You will also use the video footage of these epic moments as bribery against your kid in high school…so that you don’t have to hand over Dad’s Chevelle when he’s 16.