“Sure, I can do snacks.”
The thought was simple enough: I’ll sign up to help coordinate the snack schedule and, perhaps, volunteer to make the run to pick up the t-shirts for my son’s t-ball team. “Not a problem,” I said silently, responding to the email in a flurry of clacking key activity and hitting “send” without a second thought. When the game schedule was circulated and I saw my name designated as COACH, I didn’t know whether to laugh, gasp in horror, or fire off a strongly-worded email that identified the legal elements for entrapment and demand that I be freed of my new title. In the end, my response was a comical combination of the first two reactions – I laughed in absolute horror.
Coaching four- and five-year-old boys is the equivalent of herding cats, but with more chaos and less opportunity to actually catch them as they run by. We had one practice and my goal – to decide on a team name – was as limited as my team’s attention span. After tossing around a few names of bugs and references to rainbows, they chose to be called The Sharks – a rather endearing choice given their more striking similarity to minnows. Because my older son’s baseball games often conflicted in terms of schedule, my husband softly chuckled and shook his head at the thought of me on the field as he made his way to a game with seven- and eight-year-olds. In comparison, he was heading for the major leagues.
My goal for this experience was twofold – I wanted nine little boys to have fun and not hit anyone with a bat. Period. There would be neither skills taught nor lessons learned; the first one with a helmet on got to bat and touching actual bases was entirely optional as my minnows routinely took a sharp left at second and headed straight home. The season was eight games long, or perhaps more appropriately, eight long games. Before the second game started, my sandal broke and I spent the entire hour limping around the field with a sandal on one foot and barefoot on the other. And, yes, I wore sandals. Because actual running was rarely required, I thought it was OK to keep sporting my summer wear.
It was not OK.
Then, as often happens with life lessons, I was hit unexpectedly with a thought bubble mid-season. With dust in my teeth and my ponytail stuffed snuggly under a college alumni cap, I was bent over with my hands on my knees at second base smiling at the minnow waiting there for me to wave him to third when I realized something profound. This experience allowed Finn to see me in a different way. My canary yellow stilettos had been replaced with more practical shoes, hole-covered jean shorts replaced my office attire, and my bright red lipstick had been wiped off on the way to the field. I was dirty, dusty, enjoying a Gatorade as much as my morning latte and, most importantly, I was experiencing the game from somewhere other than the stands. Left field was nowhere in my comfort zone, yet became a surprisingly comfortable place nonetheless. This crazy and unexpected experience was shaping up to be one of the best memories that I had with my son, especially because I understand that the day may come when Finn and his brother only want to play catch with their athletic dad because they realize that he’s the one who actually knows what he’s doing. For now, I gave my role as “coach” my best shot and, confident that I accomplished one of my goals (a dozen close calls did not result in any notable injury), I could only hope that my little team had fun during the process. And, when I watched the boys walk away from the field after their last game, one little minnow gave me my answer when he ran back and wrapped his arms around my legs in a tight squeeze. Hugging him back, a single thought crossed my mind — I must have done OK.
