So some of the kids on Rocket’s teeball team are pretty darn focused. Some of them watch the batter. Some of them even stand in one spot while watching the batter. Rocket, though, not so much. He’s one of those kids. The ones that really piss off the type-A personality psycho hyper-engaged serious whackjob parents (who, coincidentally, really piss me off).
Anyhoo, I thought I’d write a little story of a tee-ball game, told from the perspective of my 5-year old son, affectionately known as Rocket.
What is that distant noise? Seriously what is that sound? Oh, it’s mama. What is that woman screaming about now? Huh. Something about “Getting dressed for tee-ball…blah…blah…gonna be late…blah” Why is she always so worried about being late? Whatever. I’m playing with my Legos. I can’t be disturbed when I’m doing this. There she goes again. Maybe I should put my uniform on. Nah. No worries. We’re only on the 2nd yell. Things never get serious until the 4th one. Oh wait. Here she comes. She looks pissed. Fine. I’ll get dressed. My pants go up to my nipples – they’re too big. That makes me mad. Daddy will cinch them with my belt, though. Mama says I’m so cute she wants to take a bite of my head. She’s weird.
I am so excited about my game. I’m going to hit three homeruns. I always do. It’s really pretty amazing how good I am at this game.
Finally we’re here. I love the dugout. I like to jump on the bench and throw my body at my teammates until one of the coaches or my mom tells me to stop. It’s okay though because I can always just spin around on the bench or lean across everybody’s knees. Or yell. They get less mad about that, but they still eventually demand that I sit still, which simply baffles me. I have a body and all this energy and all my friends and I’m happy! But they tell me to just sit here. For no reason. Adults are dumb. They always confuse me with their strange arbitrary demands (oh yeah, I’m 5, but I have a phenomenal vocabulary).
It’s my turn to bat! YAY! I put the helmet on and look over at my mom, to make sure she sees me. She says “Go Rocket!” and I love that. Daddy and Nana are watching too. I love my family. I miss my sister. I’m going to walk over to the fence before I bat and tell my mom I miss my sister and that I love her. “Mama, I love you!” “I love you too, Rocket, but go bat! Everybody’s waiting.” Again with the hurrying. I swear that woman’s got problems. I’m a really good batter. I’m a lefty. I swing. I miss. On the plus side, I almost whack my coach in his nards. Darn. I miss again. The ball. And the nards. Sadface. Mama says “it’s okay! Good job!” I swing again. And I HIT IT!!! YAY!!! I throw the bat down and stand there, watching the ball roll away. Because heck YEAH look at it GO! Wonder where it’s going? Maybe I’ll follow it. No wait. What’s that? “Run?” Oh right. First base. Here I go! Off to first base! I can’t be stopped! I’m a running machine! And good thing I’m so fast because I JUST made it! Whew!
I like being on the bases. It’s cool. Only problem is I get a little bored between batters (they take forever). So I sit down and swirl my finger in the dirt. But then coach says get ready to run. So I stand up and run. Darn. Too soon. Sit back down. Nope. Gotta run now! There’s another kid coming! So I GO GO GO with my lightning cleats, which make me run at least 3 times faster than usual. I remind my mom about this every time I put them on. Then she kisses my nose, which irritates me. She’s overly affectionate.
So now I’m on second base. I’m not sitting down anymore because that went poorly. Plus, I’ve discovered that if I put my baseball cap over my face, everything turns black and I can see light through the little holes. I do that for a while because it’s fun. And ONCE AGAIN I hear that mama voice (seriously? All the way from the bleachers? How does she do that?) “Rocket! Put your hat on! Run!”
So I run and now I’m on third base. I hardly have to wait at all…my team-mate just whacked the ball off the tee, so I’m running home for my homerun! Actually, wait a minute. There’s the dugout. I’ll just go there. But the coach is standing in the dugout flailing about trying to get me to run to home base. Man they’re uptight. But wait, that’s right! I gotta hit home base to complete my homerun! So I run again and now I’m here! I stand for a moment basking in the glory, then fall to my knees and wriggle, which is what I call “sliding.” This makes my uniform dirty. I like that.
Now it’s my turn to be shortstop. I’m so good at being shortstop. Depending on my mood, I either like to run after every single ball no matter where it is on the field, or sit on my bottom and bang my mitt in the dirt, creating dust clouds. Sometimes I turn around and bend over, sticking my bottom in the air and peering at the batter from between my legs. That’s fun. They always almost immediately tell me to turn around, stand up, and focus. Which is weird, but I do it. Jeesh could we pick up the pace??! I take my mitt off and throw it in the air to pass the time, then start spinning around and kicking dirt with my heels. Daddy yells “pay attention Rocket!” Silly man, I am paying attention…to the grass. There’s grass right behind me! I can roll in it! Oh yeah I love that! Wheeee!! Rolling in grass!!!! Wait. There’s the ball. I’m getting the ball! I got the ball! I am a tee-ball SUPER MAN and that bearded dude’s got nothin’ on me! Did you see that daddy?! I caught the ball and threw it to the catcher! Yay! Daddy saw it. Everybody’s cheering for me!
We repeat this routine for a really long time and now the game is over. I’m satisfied with my performance but I’m really really REALLY annoyed that Jason forgot to bring snack. I am absolutely STARVING. I am famished. I have never had food EVER in my WHOLE LIFE and I’m sure I’ll never see it again. These people do not love me. They don’t understand me. What I need is a piece of pizza from the snack bar. I NEED IT. I’m going to DIE without it. Mama doesn’t care. She says we’re going home. She wants to torture me. She looks like a normal person but she’s really the angel of evil and starvation. I shall put out my lip and whine, which never really works. But it’s worth a shot.
Darn. Fail again. Oh well, I have candy stuck between the seats of the car. I’ll eat those on the sly while we drive home, as I tell my mama about the 3 homeruns I hit (which were my best ones ever).
And I grin a huge grin when my parents tell me they are proud of me and I was amazing and was simply a blur I ran so fast (must have been the cleats) and I am the BEST tee-ball player pretty much in the world. Then they say something about “focusing,” which bores me and seems irrelevant, especially in the face of this snack deficiency/slacker problem. Seriously, something should be done. When it’s my day, I will not forget snack. Because that’s just wrong. I tell my mom this. She agrees.
Anyway, I love teeball. I’m kind of a big deal in teeball.