I’ve had debates with other parents over which sport is the worst one for a child to devote themselves to–the worst, that is, being an inconvenience to the parent. Hockey Parents make a great case, with all that travel to cold towns in New Hampshire. As a former Swim Parent, I know how humid it gets in those crowded stands, while you wait hours for your child’s race to come and go in 80 seconds. On Sunday, my second season as a Baseball Parent got off to bad start when Adam and I arrived at Field Two at Randall’s Island to discover a worn-out grassland and dugouts blighted with empty beer bottles. Still, like all Sports Parents, I’m committed to my child’s passion for as long as he’s committed—and the not so hidden secret is I like it.
Baseball is ideally suited for how I like to root. I like to read what I’m reading, chat with whoever it is I’m chatting with, and keep track of my son and the other boys on my own, spotty terms, reserving total focus for when he’s hitting, or for late innings and a close game. Last year, when I did pay attention, I spent too much time correcting my son, dampening the experience for both me and him. But as the season went on, I started reforming myself (i..e. shutting up and letting the coach do his job), and by the end of the season, I resembled a reasonable father again.
Adam has his community of friends on the team, and I have my community of parents, bonded by mutual interest (our children) and an immediate situation (the game) that provides us with endless and easy fodder for conversation. On Sunday, another dad, who I hadn’t seen in the off-season, greeted me with the good news that he’s found a job after 22 months of searching. Yeah, so there’s job talk, and kid talk, and school talk, and vacation talk, but mostly baseball talk, and, thankfully, not that much political talk, and when it happens, I’m usually inclined to laugh it off (if I disagree) rather than go there.
Adam is one of the team’s catchers, and I’m very proud that he’s comfortable at a position that I was always deeply uncomfortable, even fearful of playing. But aren’t catchers stoic leaders? Not my son. Adam’s favorite Yankee was always—care to guess?—Nick Swisher, and I think it’s because he recognized him as a kindred fun-loving spirit. Stoic? Knowing Adam, I wouldn’t be surprised if one inning he manages to replace home plate with a whoopee cushion.
Eric Messinger is Editor of New York Family. He can be reached at emessinger@manhattanmedia.com
