A special time of year is quickly approaching. It is the time, each year, when I transform from your typical mild mannered Mom (did I hear someone snicker?) into something scary and not a little bit dangerous…the Sport-Mom.
You see, very soon, it will begin to warm up, the grass will turn green and my two boys will be heading out of doors with their bat, ball, and glove to “take the field”. And I, being the devoted Sport-Mom, will be right there with them. I will sit in the stands, with all the other Sport-Moms doing what Sport-Moms do in such circumstances: guide in all sporting skills, guard against sport pitfalls, protect from lurking evil sport entities, and provide snacks.
Now let me say, it has taken some time for me to become the full-fledged proficient Sport-Mom you see before you today. There were those novice days when I unknowing purchased football cleats for my son to wear for an entire baseball season. The time I actually calmly watched as my son took the mound for the first time – frivolously unaware of the high stakes of Little League Baseball. Oh, and the worst – the time I forgot the snacks.
But now, I come to play – bring my A game, as it were. I try to be good, I really do. But it is a struggle. Let’s face it, whoever decided it was a good idea to meld the Mama-Bear mentality with kids sports had to know trouble was on the horizon. I fear the day I could morph into that Sport-Mom who runs to the dugout to chew out her son for a mistake made on the field because she thinks the coach isn’t doing an adequate job of it. Or, the Sport-Mom who corners the coach after the game with notes on what he needs to change – which usually includes her little dickens starting in pretty much every position. Or, the Sport-Mom who wears sexy, tight and inappropriate outfits to the game in an attempt to distract the opposing team’s coaches (ok, I might do this one if I was blessed with the goods).
Therefore, as the time approaches, even though there is no denying my ability to coach from the bleachers is, well, beyond impressive, I will head into the season with a fresh approach. Strict directives- some self-imposed and some “suggested”- to keep from getting too out of hand.
I will (per request) make every effort to restrain from screaming out those annoyingly obvious instructions such as “Throw strikes” “Hit the ball!” “Make good throws” “Keep your eye on the ball” “Just play pitch and catch” “You gotta want the ball” “Bat to ball”
and my favorite “See ball…Hit ball” (I definitely won’t say that one because someone might mistake me for an idiot).
I will squelch the impulse to hurl chunks or obsessively pace every time one of my boys comes up to bat – takes the mound – squats behind the plate… ah heck, takes the field in general.
I will resist the urge to go Spider Monkey on the Sport-Mom who is convinced her kid is getting drafted into the Majors straight out of Little League…or the Umpire who doesn’t know the rule book…or the coach who takes advantage of the Ump who doesn’t know the rule book – I will send my friend Nikki to do it.
Lastly, I will not, under any circumstances whatsoever, tell my kid (or anyone else’s) “Get your head out of your butt and get in the game”, unless, of course, it is, and in that case we are probably headed for the hospital.
I will, however, cheer until I am hoarse, gives high fives & hugs when they win, give high fives & hugs when they lose, tell them they are awesome…always, eat the teams combined weight in Good n Plenty, wear my sunscreen, and quietly kvetch with empathetic fellow Sport-Moms. All the while, keeping in mind there is undeniably, only one true answer to the question:
What is the difference between a Bulldog and a Sport-Mom?
Bulldogs don’t wear lipstick.