I had only imagined and had only speculated the joys and frustrations that make up organized youth sports.  If I’m being honest, I really only saw the frustration up until recently when my eldest son started T-Ball.  Before we had an opportunity to participate in youth sports, I only saw throngs of parents sitting in wobbly camping chairs either in the extreme heat or extreme cold, watching a practice or a game either too early or too late in the day but more often smack in the middle of a meal time.  And, sometimes I saw tired and dirty boys and girls piling into a fast food restaurant at an hour nearing bedtime with cleats still on their feet and designated jersey numbers upon their backs.

“Is this our future?” I had asked my husband before we had our first child. 

“Maybe.”  He replied. 

Well, two sons later it most certainly is our present.  And after being at our eldest son’s first t-ball game, I see the joy of the game and only found frustration in the parking situation.  For those of you who don’t see that there is a parking situation, perhaps a few rules will help you stop annoying the rest of us. 

       Rule Number One: Little cars should not be so bold when you have angry moms in SUV’s.  If you drive a little car, think bumblebee and rhinoceros.  Hope that helps.

       Rule Number Two:  Just because your car can fit there, it still doesn’t make it a parking spot.

       Rule Number Three:  I don’t think the architects of these parking lots have envisioned the lots, as clearly as some of you have, that there should only be one point of ingress and egress as you have clearly created by disregarding Rule #’s 1 and 2. 

       But, be that as it may, what I don’t do to offend as far as parking is concerned, I seemed to have more than made up for in the realm of being annoying and offensive on the field.  I videotaped nearly the entire game and have watched it almost every day this week.  And, I’ll be the first one to admit it’s hard to watch without curling my shoulders up to my ears at the sheer shrillness of my voice, screaming to my son to run, run, run and catch it, catch it, catch it! 

Ah, yes.  I’m quite embarrassed with myself.  I used to make fun of crazy moms like me.  Naturally, I assumed I would not be one of those psychotic sports moms.  But there’s just something about MY kid that makes me think he’s so much better than everyone else’s and I feel an overwhelming need to let all of you know that.  I kid, of course, but at the game I screamed and I screamed and I screamed.  I interfered with the dugout, overstepped the natural boundaries between observer and wanna-be coach, and probably inserted my big butt in the frame of several different snapshots trying to be taken by demure and properly sitting parents when their own child was up at bat.  Uh yeah, I got nothing except…I’m sorry. 

All I can say is that I have evidence through my videotaping that I may have taken it a bit overboard.  I’m going to try to tone it down a smidge before the next game and try my darndest to not get out of my seat.  Of course, my seat might be up against the fence at home base, but I promise to attempt sitting. 

So, some of you need to understand the rational of white painted, properly designated parking spaces, and I’ll take a muscle relaxer.  Then, we’ll all be good and we can say in unison, “Play Ball!”