Baseball

Aww, baseball. That tradition of American traditions; that symbol of the red, white and blue. The word alone conjures up images of summer sunshine and shared smiles. Baseball. It almost brings a tear to your eye.

Unless you're me.

If you're me, the word "baseball" conjures up images of endless innings of guys standing around scratching themselves in embarrassing places while waiting for something--please, SOMETHING!--to happen on the field. People stand around. They chew and spit. They stand around some more. The crowd goes wild.

I would be more entertained in a completely dark room. At least I'd have my anxieties and dreams to keep my mind busy.

So why--why? WHY?--did I sign my oldest son up to play baseball this summer? What could have possessed me to purposefully fill my summer hours with this tedious, monotonous, utterly atrocious "national pasttime"?

I think it was the peer pressure. When Joseph began toddling around, I started putting a soccer ball in front of his feet. He would toddle, kick, toddle, kick, step on the ball, fall on his face, toddle, kick. It was fabulous. I adore soccer games and couldn't wait until he was old enough to play. That's when the peer pressure began.

"Maybe he would be really good at baseball," my Mom said pointedly. "He doesn't have to like soccer just because you like soccer."

"I hate baseball," I replied. "Why would I sign him up for baseball when I'd have to go to his games and pretend to enjoy watching people standing around the field not doing anything? Whoop-de-doo."

"Don't be selfish," she would reply, finding a vulnerable target in my psyche.

This conversation has been repeated over and over with my Mom. Every time the kids play in her backyard, she pulls out the bat and ball and starts the indoctrination process. The mental retraining. The not-so-subtle, not-very-sneaky grand-parental sabotage that she excels at.

And as it turns out, Joseph is good. (mental expletive) The boy loves it and is really not half bad. I have no idea how he'll do in a public setting when there are a million distractions--he didn't even look at the soccer ball when he was in U6 soccer because he was having so much fun just running after the other kids and laughing--but my Mom's treacherous betrayal was effective and Joseph's first baseball game is today. (Actually it was last week, but I was out of town and it got forgotten in the confusion.)

And so I sacrifice myself up in exchange for the delighted smiles of my seven-year-old. I'm sure it'll be worth it the first time I see him hit that ball and run to 1st base. At least, it better be worth it. If not, my Mom and I need to have a few words.

And as for me, I think there is a Real Salt Lake game (with David Archuleta performing afterward) that is calling my name. Really, I think I deserve it.