kiwords

Tonight Raphael had a baseball game. But not just ANY baseball game, OH NO. Tonight, Raphael had HIS LAST BASEBALL GAME of the year.

*pause to collect myself and dab at the tears of joy and relief*

Don't get me wrong, I loves me some little boy baseball. There's simply nothing quite as sweet as a field full of wonky wee lads, their sliding pants all askew, shirt tails coming untucked, their eyes like lasers beneath their dusty caps. Lasers focused on GOD ALONE KNOWS WHAT.

Raphael's team is still playing goofy little boy ball. They don't really field the ball, they run after the it en masse, like a herd of Keystone Kops. They're pretty sure they won every game, but really they were mostly there for the snacks. There was one boy on his team this year who would stride up to the plate, then spin around and bellow at his parents, "YOU DON'T EMBARRASS ME NOW! JUST DON'T!" And then he would flail away, swinging the bat one-handed, wildly missing the ball. Good times.

While Raphael's team bounced along like a herd of puppies, Max's team is at a whole different level. They practice twice as often. Their games last two hours. They KEEP SCORE. And this Saturday they won their last game, finishing at 5-4, an official winning season. They take the game seriously, and it shows. And it costs.

We've had baseball demands on our time 5 days a week - at least - for the last two months. We ate dinner off paper towels in the car on the way to practice, drinking from water bottles clutched between knees. There are bats and mitts and batting helmets in my van, and empty Gatorade bottles under the seats. The boys have eaten more individually wrapped junk food over the last two months than they  have the rest of the year.

I. am. DONE.

Tonight as we trundled into the van for One Last Game, everyone talking at once, Clay running back into the house for one more forgotten thing, Raphael called to me from the back seat.

"Mom?" he said, cradling his mitt with the sort of affection usually reserved for particularly fine Pokemon cards, "can I play Fall ball?"

"NO." I may have responded somewhat quickly. As we drove off into a golden summer evening, I turned to look at him, all shiny and jewel-eyed in his purple cap. He was thrilled to be joining his team on the field, thrilled to be wearing his uniform and playing the game.

Oh honey, I thought. Not just no, HELL NO.