I took Kevin, my 5-year-old nephew and new roommate, to his third round of T-ball practices this week. I haven’t done this sort of thing in a long while and I feel a bit like the Team Granddad. I’m a few decades older than the other adults.
You remember how they used to have Team Moms who brought refreshments to the games and made posters to encourage the players? At least, that’s how it was done when my own kids were playing little-guy sports 15-20 years ago. I realize that having a Team Mom may be considered sexist nowadays, but a Team Dad wouldn’t work at all. Team Dads won’t bring fun drinks or refreshments. “Go without,” they’d say, “It’ll toughen you up.”
“But I’m so thirsty!”
“Here, suck on a pebble. That’s what we used to do back in ‘Nam.”
But a Team Granddad? I guess I could let the boys bounce on my knee after the games, and if their moms aren’t watching, play “pull my finger.” After the practice is over holler, I could be the one who yells, “Hey you kids get off that dirt pile.”
As we were driving home I asked Kevin about his favorite part of practice. He told me it was when he got to wear the batting helmet.
I said, “Oh, you mean when you got a chance to bat?”
“No,” Kevin said. “I mean when I got to wear the helmet. It was all black. It was cool.”
In fact, the batting helmet looked huge on those little guys. It reminded me of Rick Moranis as Dark Helmet in the Mel Brooks classic movie, “Spaceballs.” It looked like the helmet was wearing the boy.
As Team Granddad, it’s sometimes hard to know which kid is mine when they’re out on the field. They all look alike in their baseball caps (“No, Uncle Berry, this is a T-Ball cap”). It reminds me of 20 years ago when Cyndi and I were in the bleachers at a swim meet and we couldn’t tell which skinny little boy in black Speedos and goggles was Byron. They all looked alike from a distance. We didn’t know which one to cheer for.
It’s fun to watch the young boys adapt to the game and to the structure of practice. Some of them already have the stance and body moves of an athlete, but most of them still run with arms and legs flapping, and are usually more interested in drawing pictures in the dirt than the actual game of baseball.
Last week we traveled to Mansfield, Texas to spend the holidays with our daughter (Katie) and son-in-law (Drew) for a few days. Kevin took his new baseball glove (“It’s a T-Ball glove, Uncle Berry”) so he could play catch with Drew. When he showed off his glove, Drew was so excited he ran to the closet and pulled out his own first glove and showed it to Kevin. Drew said, “Wow, first gloves are a lot better now than they were when I got mine.”
They played catch in the backyard for about five minutes until Kevin grew tired of the whole thing. Then Drew showed him how to take care of his glove and to lay it down properly so the fingers wouldn’t curl and make it harder to scoop up ground balls. Drew didn’t offer any lessons on how to curl the brim of a baseball hat, but maybe he’s saving that for next time.
For me, it’s interesting to be doing T-Ball after so many years. I never expected to still be reinventing myself at the age of 51. I fully expected to be settled into routine by now; doing only the things I know well – only the things I want to do. But life is full of changes.
And I’ve changed my mind about changes, too. All the cool books I’m now reading, and all the learned voices I’m now listening to, and all my favorite skills I’m learning, have entered my life during the past five years. Change has been good for me.
Today at lunch, my friend Mark looked into the back seat of my pickup and noticed the booster seat for Kevin, and the stack of take-home papers from pre-school. He laughed at me and said, “Hey, this is all good for you.” He should know; Mark has been one of the biggest change agents in my life these past few years.
I guess I’ll admit that I’m starting to look forward to my next round of changes, whatever they may be. I’m looking forward to who I’ll be next year, or in the next ten years, or in the next century. It turns out that change is a gift, not a burden. Who knew?
