four seven five for beer
at least five bucks for ice cream
first ball game? priceless
OK. Sorry to do the cheesy mastercard thing for a haiku, but it was all I could think of.
The wee one went to his first baseball game last night – it was a double A game between the Frisco Rough Riders and the Midland Rockhounds. Frisco got creamed 5 to 1. We didn’t care, though. In fact, I don’t think any of us actually watched the game at all. We were too busy chasing down the wee one and trying to keep him from 1)falling down the stairs 2) rolling down the berm 3) running onto the field or 4) attacking the mascot.
I was very proud of the wee man. After gobbling up some Ice Cream of the Future (dippin’ dots) that he disturbingly referred to as “rocks from payground” he went into full stalker mode and hunted down Deuce, the giant prairie dog that is the rough riders’ mascot.
Upon finding Deuce, the wee one chased after him yelling, “Deuce! Deuce! Deuce!” until the mascot was forced into an endless round of high fives. While other two-year-olds screamed and ran from the 6 foot plus prairie dog, my son tried to climb on him and beat him about the head. It was a proud moment.
When the mascot was thoroughly roughed up, we moved on to the berm area so that the wee one could run and scream with other kids without bothering people who actually came to watch the baseball game.
If you haven’t seen one of these berms, they’re, frankly, very frightening. Basically, it’s a grassy hill sloped at about 45 degrees where you sit with your family, trying to see who can get beaned in the head with a home run first. When you’re not getting knocked out by flying baseballs, your children are perilously rolling down the 45 degree hill and crashing their skulls into the thoughtfully placed concrete wall that anchors a small net fence into the ground.
The berm is harrowing.
While we were there, though, a Rockhound hit a pop fly. I, of course, dove straight for the wee one, body slamming him to the ground to try and protect him from the flying ball. The fact that the flying ball wasn’t going to land anywhere near us didn’t matter. One cannot be too careful.
The center fielder earned his $250 a week by catching the ball. Yay! Then he tossed it over his shoulder onto to the berm like chum to the sharks. There was a frenzy of action from all the 7-12 year old boys trying to retrieve the ball. At the bottom of the scrum, though, no one came up with it. It had rolled to the feet of my mom (aka Tutu the Grandma). Tutu picked it up, the family cheered, the scrum of 7-12 year old boys were very, extremely, possibly even dangerously angry, and the wee one got his first real baseball (which he promptly threw between the slats of the wrought iron fence surrounding the ballpark, and into the parking lot.)
We retrieved the ball, though, and all was well.
It was a great night, not soon to be forgotten. Especially since the wee one has a temporary tattoo on the side of his face that is proving to be difficult to get off.