Inside Baseball

"That's four runs!" Great. How in the world did we let that one slip through our fingers - again? All we had to do was score one run for the win. Instead, three up, three down, then we let them come back and score four to tie it. Amazing.

"OK, let's score some runs. 15, you're up. 42 and 8, you're on deck." And now we're more than halfway down the lineup. Not that the top of the lineup did their job last inning.

"Batter up!" Oh, brother, not again! Why does her dad have to coach from the bleachers every time she gets up to bat? She'd probably be a decent hitter if Daddy wasn't giving her a complex.

"Strike!" Huh. She was looking over at the bleachers before the umpire even called it.

"That's all right 15, you got two more. Focus on the ball, quit worryin' about distractions. This is just like practice. Have some faith in yourself!" Have faith in yourself. If I had a nickel for every time I said that to an 8-year-old with a bat...

"Safe!" Merry Christmas. But we'll take it. How many days this very week did we practice batting? We're never going to win with infield dribblers like that. But would you look at that coach yelling at his kid for fumbling the ball? Note to self: chill out; screaming just makes you look stupid.

"Batter up!" Here comes God's Gift to Softball. At least her Mom thinks so. She'd probably be happier in ballet shoes. But no, she's got to follow in Mama's footsteps and be a Collegiate Softball Princess. Poor kid. No telling how much time and money her parents put into fancy bats and private training. Too bad her heart's not in it.

"Come on 42, let's put the ball in play! Have faith in yourself!" And stride toward the pitcher.

"Strike 3!" You have to swing to hit. I'm pretty sure we've worked on this. More than once. Do those people really think yelling at the umpire is going to get them anywhere? Sure, his strike zone is... variable... but at least it's been equally screwed up for both teams. I'm sure it's my fault somehow, though. I'll take the blame for the bad weather, too.

"Let's go 8, it's your turn to crush that ball! Have some faith!" Only one out. One runner on base. This one will strike out and then we'll be at the top of the lineup. Maybe if we're lucky we'll get a couple of runs after all.

"Strike!" And her parents complain that she's at the bottom of the lineup? What do they expect when they only make half the practices and never swing the bat or throw the ball at home? Do I have some kind of magic potion - oh great - infield fly.

"BACK! BACK! BACK!" Oh -

"Out!" Crap. Unbelievable. Sometimes these kids are worse than squirrels.

"Hats and gloves! Hats and gloves! Hustle out. Same positions. Hang on - 42, you go to center field. 15, you're on third." No, Sis, we are not having this conversation again in front of the whole ballpark. Your little girl needs to be in center field because there's a batter coming up who one-hopped it to the fence her last time at bat. You'd think a guy's own family might cut him some slack. At least I only have one sibling to get bent out of shape. I heard about this guy over in Bryant who had eight or nine grandkids playing on the same team. Crazy.

"Outside!" Why is this guy arguing with me again. I've already told him a dozen times who gets to pitch when, we're trying to balance fairness with winning, blah blah blah. Do these parents think I haven't already thought of doing things some other way? I didn't just wander in off the street. Do they have any clue how many hours I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling ciphering on how to make these girls better as a team? Why do I even bother. Here, you be the coach.

"C'mon, just put a strike in there. Don't listen to the chatter. Have faith in yourself!" This has been nothing but a pain in the butt. All the time, all the money, all the energy - and what do I have to show for it? Last place and a hornets' nest of whining, angry parents.

"Batter up!" Let's just get this over with.

"IT'S COMIN' TO YOU 42! CATCH IT IN THE AIR! CATCH IT! Good try." Just not good enough.

"Ballgame!" Hey, that could be our motto: Pineville Patriots: When Your Best Just Isn't Good Enough. It certainly captures the spirit of this season.

"Line up. Good game." Yeah right. Good game for the winners.

"Hey coach, do we get to play them again? We're gonna beat them next time!"

"Coach, did you see my hit?"

"Uncle Mike, I tried so hard to catch that long fly ball!"

"Hey Coach, thanks for lettin' me play first base!"

"Coach, did I have a better attitude this time? Or do I need to run to the pole some more?"

"Dad, I tagged that girl out clean, that umpire wasn't even watching!"

"My Daddy was here! Did he see me run home?"

"Good game, Coach. We'll get 'em next time."

"Daddy, when I'm 8 will you be my coach too?"

I love this game.

"Practice tomorrow at 6!"

Newtonian Summer

Last weekend, in anticipation of the End of School, Samuel, Nathan, and Aaron built a catapult. They had some help from Grandpa and me. Nathan had been lobbying on behalf of catapults for several weeks. It is constructed entirely of vintage 2x6 scraps, 3" deck screws, an old bicycle inner tube, and a plastic flower pot. The project came in within budget ($0.00) and schedule (2 hours on a Saturday morning.)

In the end, the power was impressive but the range was underwhelming. But, hey, WE BUILT A CATAPULT. Never one to be satisfied with the status quo, Nathan has now moved on to lobby for catapult improvements, such as wheels, a longer throwing arm, and a lock/release mechanism.

Our ultimate aim, of course, is to construct a siege engine huge enough to hurl pumpkins, logs, stray dogs, or even boys over the lake and into Fort Musteen.

For those interested in catapults, we gleaned inspiration from the following sources:

Books:

Websites:
Storm the Castle
TrebuchetStore.com
Dan Beard's Boys Outdoor Handy Book

Crashing

"Daddy!" The coefficient of static friction was not great enough to keep the white 14" tires upright as she sped 'round the corner onto the gravel driveway. I had anticipated this moment for a while now. The First Bicycle Wreck is a big moment in one's life, and I wanted this one to be special for her.

"Get up, you're OK." I was pretty sure she was OK. It was a slow-motion crash on loose gravel. A high-speed crash on pavement would certainly have been worse. Although gravel crashes have a special place in our family's history. Uncle Mike could say more about that.

"No I'm not!" Sophie begged to differ. But even in defiance, the tangle of pink steel tubing and curly blond hair began to unwind itself. I saw a bit of red on a knee. Otherwise, nothing but dirt.

"Brush yourself off."

"But Daddy! I crashed!" She examined her hands and began to brush them together even as she proclaimed her injury.

"You'll be OK. Get back on and let's ride home."

"But Daddy!" Sniff, sniff. "I'll just crash all the way home!" Sometimes the hardest part about being a good parent is to keep from laughing.

"Come on, let's go. We'll doctor you up when we get home."

"But you'll have to hold me the whole way!"

"I'll be right here beside you, but you can do it yourself." We were already halfway down the driveway.

"I'm never riding this bike again!"

"Keep pedaling. Watch where you're going." Sometimes the best way to deal with negativity is to wholly ignore it. "Push it all the way into the garage. Here, let me unbuckle your helmet." Good thing for helmets. Wish we had remembered the kneepads.

"Daddy! The water's too cold!" It's important to wash out scrapes and cuts with running water. Especially if the scrape is full of dirt and gravel particles. Cold water is most effective. Probably.

"Dry it off so I can put on this band-aid." Like the sun breaking through stormclouds, the sniffling and snubbing came to an abrupt halt. Behold, The Band-Aid: Fixer of All Boo-Boo's, Dryer of All Tears, Balm of Skint Knees. Magic.

"Sophie, don't run in the house!"

Memorial Day

Hot Springs, AR - May 25, 2009
Gettysburg, PA - Nov 19, 1863

"When are they going to start?"

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

"How many boats do you think are out here?"

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.

"Hey, the moon looks like a slice of cantaloupe!"

We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live.

"Look, that airplane's flying right into the fireworks!"

It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

"Remember when we were kids and Granddad used to take us to that place on the lake for ice cream?"

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate... we can not consecrate... we can not hallow this ground.

"Get him! Shoot the airplane!"

The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract.

"What was the name of that place? Remember, we used to jump off the top of it into the water?"

The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

"Wow, look at those! Awesome!"

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.

"I think Nathan fell asleep."

It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us

"Lara never would jump. She was afraid to mess up her hair."

That from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion

"Daddy, snuggle me!"

That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom.

"Look at all that smoke!"

And that government of the people,

"What time is it?"

By the people,

"Daddy, do I have to take a shower when I get home?"

For the people,

"I was not afraid to mess up my hair."

Shall not perish from the earth.

Training Wheels

"Daddy! But can you just put them back on?" It's been over six months since your fourth birthday, Sophie. It's time for them to go.

"Nope. You're a big girl. You can pedal and steer just fine, and it will be much easier to ride the bike without the training wheels." And I don't know if my back can take another half hour of pushing you a quarter mile to the mailbox and home again. Training wheels and rutted out gravel driveways go together like dogs and ice cream.

"But Daddy! I'm NOT very big!" You've got to be kidding me. You get heavier by the mile.

"Yes, you are. You already zoom around on your scooter without any training wheels at all." And you have the band-aids on your knees to prove it.

"But Daddy! Can you just put them back on?" Sorry Sophie. You know the McFarland Law of Bicycles: You get a bike for your fourth birthday, and you have to be riding it - without training wheels - before your fifth. Well, maybe you don't know it. But that's the rule. Ask Grandpa if you don't believe me.

"I'll hold on the whole time. I won't let you fall. Let's get your helmet." We never had helmets when I was a kid. It's a wonder we made it to double digits.

"The pink cat one?" Yes, the Pink Cat One. The one that screams, 'I'm a girly-girl, and I have all the pink accessories to prove it!'

"Pull your hair back so I can snap it. No, pull it back out of your face. There we go."

"Don't let go, Daddy! Whatever you do, do NOT let go!" Yes, Your Highness. "Daddy! It's too fast! What if I crash!"

"I've got you - I'm hanging on to your shirt. You can feel it. Don't take your feet off the pedals! Don't look at the ditch - you'll drive right into it!" I think we waited too long to take those things off. You've been ready for this a while. All I'm doing is holding the back of your shirt - you're doing it, girl.

"Daddy! Don't let go!"

Two days later...

"OK, ready to go for another bike ride?"

"Oh, yes! Let me get my helmet on." Oh, yes.

"Remember, keep your feet on the pedals, look where you're go..."

"Daddy, I can do it." Oh, really? We'll see.

"Alright, alright!" Maybe I'll just barely hold on - just in case.

"Daddy, let go! I can do it myself!" OK, have it your way. Well. How about that. You can do it yourself.

"Daddy, I said let go!" Was I holding on again?

What if you lose your balance, though? What if you fall down and scrape your knees? Look where you're going! Keep your feet on the pedals! What if you start going too fast and can't stop? Sophie, slow down! What if you grow up before I can blink and become beautiful like your mother and sing like an angel and have a family of your own and change the world? Be careful! I can't keep up with you!

"Look at me, Daddy! I'm doing it!"

"Yes, you are. You're doing it."

Enough Kids

"Daddy, do you want another kid?" I had wandered upstairs to help the boys find fragments of cub scout uniforms so they could get dressed before we inhaled a quick dinner and teleported to our den meetings.

"Which one of you would I send back?" I had caught Samuel off guard. He paused to regroup.

"No, I mean - do you want ANOTHER kid?" Obviously, I had misunderstood.

"I'm pretty satisfied with the three of you. Is one of you defective?"

"No not that - ANOTHER." I guessed it was time to move on.

"Oh, you don't mean a DIFFERENT kid, you mean an ADDITIONAL kid?"

"Yeah, another one."

"I think we have enough with three." I found the neckerchief under a beanbag.

"But if Mommy had another kid, would you want it?" Nathan was in the game now.

"Yes, of course I would. But we've had all the kids we need to have."

"But how do you know..."

"It's time for dinner. Wash your hands." After a quick blessing, we got down to the business of refueling. Tonight was fish sticks, biscuits, green beans, and corn on the cob. If not the food pyramid, it was at least the food ziggurat. Nathan couldn't let it go.

"Mommy, do you want another kid?" Kristi nearly choked. Without missing a bite, Sophie beat me to it:

"Trade Nathan!"

Nathan Plays Piano at TBC on Mother's Day