This is the first time in 14 years that I haven’t been sitting on the edge of a baseball field through April and May. I have loved every second of watching my boys play. Up until last year, I was a New England baseball mom for thirteen seasons. We recently moved to Colorado.
Right now, I miss the feeling of my toes freezing. Strange, it is a rite of passage. Unexpectedly, the sun would be out all day and I’d dress for summer. In my book, flip flops and baseball-watching are first cousins. I’d never plan properly. Like a woman who gets over the pain of childbirth, I loved freezing in April. It is a glorious kind of suffering. Come to think of it, I would give birth again as long as all paths lead back to baseball. There’s nothing better than a five-year-old child’s first baseball practice. I enjoy watching coaches herd cats for t-ball. I want it all. I want it right now. Give me baseball!
We all celebrate and equally dread the eating-out-season. We just don’t have time to pull together meal prep, homework, and game/practice schedules. It gets hectic in the spring. Ahhhh pizza every night! Once, I met a mom who put us all to shame. Kelley made salads and had fruit for her kids. #KELLEY! The first two times I saw her...I knew we wouldn’t be friends! Pizza! It’s the baseball family diet.
I love watching my boys learn about baseball resilience. It’s a hard sport to grow through. There’s a ‘secret special season’ during a child’s early playing years. Kids want to move constantly. Waiting is hard. Patience is harder. This secret special season is a magical stage. Kids have to practice tolerance of delay as space and time guides them to understand—speed and strength are only part of the game. It’s a waiting time. I watched both of my boys transition through this period and become smarter players. It’s brilliant to watch them mature and become chess masters on the field. Baseball is a methodical and smart game. I think all sports are intelligent, no matter what anyone says about golf.
If your child sticks with the game, you watch them discover the prowess of baseball. Minutia guides every single move. Body position determines outcomes. A great coach knows more about the infinitesimal details of baseball and it changes the big picture. My husband coached for 14 years. He attended camps and training to learn, not just the game, but the skillful management of kids and teamwork. I watched him treat every child like they belonged on the field. The experience transformed both my husband and my boys as they discovered how baseball is an ever-unfolding art. It is beautiful to behold.
The game changed me as well. There is an unexpected and deeply personal connection to the culture of the game—the fellowship of baseball moms. My kids played a variety of sports and there’s no greater friendship than one forged outside the fence of a baseball field. It’s like camping. You bring your own chair and you sit on the edge. The fire is the diamond. We tell stories. We share child rearing craziness, challenges with peer pressure, and tips on how to let go. We cover divorces, celebrations, and struggles with marriage; we practice the art of telling hard truths—all while watching our kids play. This is just what women do. We share and we cheer on every child as if they are our own. April through June, and into summer leagues, we all belong to each other.
Baseball truly is about community. It always snowed or rained like a banshee in New England. Fields had to be drained, relined and prepped countless times. They’d call out the troops and the baseball families would show up to take it on.
Casey Burgess, for as long as I live, I’ll never forget you mucking the field for the last summer game of your high school career. Watching you prep the field after a wild rainstorm broke my heart. You made me a very proud mom. You forged on. You wanted that last game with every ounce of your being. You belong to Tina and Hunter...this made you mine.
Casey, your mom is an angel and one of the most daring and beautiful friendships I’ve ever had. We met on a crisp, spring evening in April, on a baseball field, in a scrap of time when nothing could have been more important to me. Baseball truly has the power to change people. Come visit when this is all over—we will head to the water and play dockball.
Baseball pushes you to grow and challenges both the child and parent in ways unimaginable. I always tried to help my boys without pushing them too hard. When our oldest, Liam, was little, he had many challenges with coordination. Picture a tall turkey on long legs with boy arms flailing about like wings. Diagnosed at Children’s Hospital in Boston, there is a long medical term for his pre-teen condition. We referred to it as Gangly Goofy Hopper Syndrome. It's a typical coordination disorder and most kids grow out of it as their body develops. We put worry aside and watched him closely, all while coming up with ways to provide support and help him adjust.
One season, Liam was so slow and rangy; he rarely made it safely to first base. He seemed to be struggling across the board with his body changing and he clambered to accommodate his new found growth. Liam also developed a foot-dragging-cockamamie-walk; we figured it was all part of the “Goofy Hopper” spectrum of symptoms. The doctors told us to stop worrying. Running and jumping were hard. He was a big boy for his age and directing all his appendages cooperatively was ambitious. Some of us struggle to grow into ourselves. I wanted to encourage him and help with this. We would go to the field and run drills. I’d measure off the distance from home plate to first base and have him run sprints. Off he would go, dragging his foot and fluttering his turkey wings. On top of everything else, he had Sever’s Disease, another condition that is painful but goes away with time. We figured this was why he was dragging about awkwardly. We kept at it to no avail.
One afternoon, during this particularly challenging growth phase, I took him and his little brother to the playground. I watched Liam get out of the car and limp to the entrance where the slides were. It hit me with a vision of clarity…
Sure enough, Liam had a broken foot. All my efforts to help him overcome his challenges were absurd. He just needed time to outgrow himself and heal a broken part. My baseball mom friends were the ones to help me laugh through my personal failures. They shared their own stories and weird misunderstandings—times they thought their kids were faking it when something turned out to be good and wrong. Baseball moms help each other survive parenting.
Liam was out for the entire season. He showed up to every game, dressed and present to support his teammates. He has always been a kind and gracious child. His awareness of others and willingness to help is heartwarming. He was never the best player but was always one of the most committed. He showed up and did his job.
Every team needs a Liam. He graduated high school a year early and is done with baseball. He’s strong, coordinated, and self-assured. He’s currently a member of National Ski Patrol and training to be an EMT. He’s out in the world contributing and still the guy you want on your team. You can count on him. My Liam struggled and still always had the soul of a ball player.
This past month, I boxed up Liam’s catcher's gear to take to the Goodwill. The grief was unbearable. I was reminded of all the people and lessons along the way. I placed my hand on his chest plate, still covered in mud, and whispered,
Moving to Colorado was hard. I had to leave behind some amazing friendships. There were women who understood me and embraced my personality. I wasn’t sure what I would find here. Durham’s first game was rained out; the kids practiced anyway. I didn’t know a soul in the entire state. We moved early, pulling Durham out of school so he could play summer ball. We carried his equipment on the plane and his bat was wedged between our bedding in an over-sized duffle bag. Air mattresses were shipped to an empty townhouse in Fort Collins. We had two agenda items on our schedule; buy a few dishes and play ball.
We are a baseball family. We have been since before Liam and Durham were birthed into existence. It’s a calling. It chooses you.
Sitting in my chair with my Yeti and umbrella in hand, I was disappointed to have the game rained out. It was just me and one other family staying to watch the boys practice. And like acoustical magic, in the distance, I hear a stranger threaten her daughter.
On this drizzly afternoon, Joey was one of those bored siblings hopping up and down on the slick metal bleachers like a long-tailed-lemur in the wild. I’m so used to it after all these years, having watched countless siblings being dragged to hundreds of games. I don’t even hear it anymore.
The child didn’t even have a hotdog in her hand, let alone her mouth. I turned and grinned like it was a new beginning...and it was. I tried to pull off a coyish disposition with a harsh fake tone of judgement,
“I did!” She punched back. Amie was the first person to make me laugh in this beautiful foreign land. In an instant, we became friends. We didn’t stop talking, not once. I tried, but Lord, we had more in common than anyone could imagine. As a favorite coach once said,
Amie made me feel a little less lonely here. Baseball moms take care of each other. We learn about teachers, parenting, and of course, the struggles. We cover trends we can’t pull off and some that we rock. We discuss hair coloring, and exhaustion. We order blankets, hats, and shirts; we are superfans! We love baseball and watching our kids play.
Know this, baseball is the chosen sport. Grab your pucks and thin edged sticks; I’ll take you on.
Baseball season always coincided with the end of the school-year. It was a daring adventure to be among these women comparing our battle scars, laughing and just being present. I didn’t realize how lonely life would be without you—especially with the world being wack-a-doodle and all of us being isolated. Baseball is healing. We need each other. I need you. I need your stories. I need your laughter. I need to be the obnoxious mom with the walkie talkies quietly calling out, “He was safe! Copy?” Why text when you can say, “Ten Four...Over and Out!” We would stake out two positions for a legitimate call. Baseball needs more mom scouts.
Yep. I am that mom. Don’t get me wrong. We lived by codes of discipline and conduct; we kept each other in check. You always show respect to the umpires. Here’s the issue, we know everything there is to know about baseball. It’s a fine line to walk.
At the games, Cassie fed us pop-corn, Melissa always had something beautiful to share and Lisa was our rock. Rhonda always arrived early and saved a seat for me. I miss showing up and seeing her waiting. Kristina had junk food and I brought Dr. Pepper. I like to sit at an angle near home plate and keep track of balls and strikes. We have systems; like players, moms have their own baseball routines and superstitions. These are my memories. I’m talking 14 years of moms’s weaving tales and taking care of each other.
That mom, #Kelley, the one who made salads, I fell in love with her. She has the soul of a baseball mom. Her stories have stories. And Lord, she hates baseball! Yet, she is one of us. Kelley looked to us to know when to cheer and be disappointed—mostly followed by, “I don’t get it.” We mentored her despite her indifference. I can see us all laughing now...Karie, Cassie, Kelley, Kristina and me—so many amazing women over the years. This is the beauty of baseball friendships. We laugh and support one another while dressing the wounds that will become our battle scars. I miss you all so much.
Baseball moms are a fierce lot. We will show up with one salad, seven extra-large cheese pizzas, and 30 pieces of splintered ‘Wood Bat League’ official bat chunks worth $1500 to defend one another.
We do a great job of raising each other up and over challenges. Ladies, I think, now, just might be a ‘secret special season.’ We got this; we just have to grow through, just grow through. It’s awkward and we are all a little cockamamied. So we wait, millions of baseball moms across the world, all standing by, longing to hear...