Field of Daydreaming

I showed up to practice at the park early the other day. A handful of kids were already there to greet me. The wind swirled around the gravel parking lot, immediately kicking up grit into my mouth as I pulled out the equipment.

One of my players said: "If I scream, don't worry, Coach." I stopped and looked at her as she exclaimed that she had a 'broken tooth that sometimes shot pain'.

Oh, wow. I thought and nodded my head as I carried the bag to the bench.

"And don't be alarmed if I bark."

I halted and turned to her waiting to hear a doozy of a story.

"Yeh, there was some -- blah, blah, blah (info I couldn't hear due to the shock or wind--- that made me nauseated, so I might barf."

"Oh! I said relieved but immediately thought up a game plan should "barf" at practice.

"well, the water cooler will be on the bleachers, get a drink if ya need to." I told her and patted her head.

The sun shone just enough to make the outfielders- well, all the kids, feel a bit drowsy as they stood in their positions to practice. Even I started to get sucked into the hypnotizing effects of a ball field. Overgrown grass blowing in the breeze, an empty, beat up garbage can chained to the fence for decoration; all of them factoring into a good lazy summer afternoon of daydreaming. No wonder kids dreams start on a ball field.

Sweet Summertime..

(J getting as close to the surf as possible here in Idaho)

I am competitive.

And, yet, I love to teach beginning skills in sports. And now that it is summer, baseball is underway. In all sports and in life, it comes down to the basics and if I can teach kids the right way... well, then I feel that I have done made a difference.

However, the other day when the ump told me that the last batter was my little Brea (name change), who has yet to hit the ball this season and is about the size of the bat- and the bases were loaded, I sorta felt sad.

The bases were loaded. And the batter after Brea could have surely brought them all home. Brea had shown up for the game and had asked if she could just 'skip' batting. I told her it wasn't an option, but I would help her.

Could hardly blame her- the first practice she'd been to she got nailed with the ball in the hand.

I don't even remember what I said to her, but I recall feeling that with each pitch, she seemed to be getting closer to hitting that ball. At one point I thought she might just get lucky and make contact.

And then it happened- the bat connected perfectly with the ball. She swung evenly and the hit went out somewhere near second base.

I screamed. It startled her and she dropped the bat and ran toward first. She made it safely! I couldn't believe it! All of the practices out in the crummy weather were worth it. And like that, I remembered why I do what I do: the look in a child's eye when they overcome fear and accomplish something hard.

Brea hitting the ball wasn't expected until the end of the season. It was a miracle to witness and I couldn't have been more proud of her- or my little team.

Rubarb-ade

Before bed J and I like to laugh and lately a Junie B. Jones book has done the trick. Last night Junie learned about the adage: 'when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade.' Well, I did just that,

except with Rhubarb.

I am always rusty with my first pie of the season.

The crust eventually gets better each time I make it. But today, after I sliced through the crust, I encountered a puddle of rhubarb juice.

A first.

AFter visiting beautiful Utah- 80 degree, sunny weather- I returned home to the same dreary, cloudy sky forecast. The Snake River is so swollen; lapping up onto the greenbelt. And the rumour is it will be a foot higher by Friday.

So Jaden and I run our various errands together now that it is Summer (a loose term we use in Idaho) and enjoy that he has mainly indoor activities to pass the first week of June.

I hesitated blogging about my lovely pie, but then realized that the whole point of my blog is about the bitter and the sweet. I think I will just pour the pie into the blender and make it a shake or something. sigh.

GREEN

It finally came- the color green. Well, it's been here for a little while. But it took a lot of rain and many shades of gray to endure!

No Good, Very Bad, Idaho Winters give way to spring.

Eventually.

So eventually the snow melts, leaving the grit, decomposing leaves and matted down grass. Along with whatever else the wind blows in. Just yesterday the sun came out.

Had I not driven south and seen the sun, I would have wondered what that large, shiny disk was in the sky.

After going through a spring hail storm and passing by other drivers who had slid off the road, the sun broke through the clouds and shone down on a beautiful shamrock looking field.

J, squinting, exclaimed: "Mom! The co- co- col" - due to the awe he was experiencing, he couldn't finish his sentence. I nodded and put my hand my hand on his leg. "Yep, son, the color green."

In order for our yards to turn into that lush green color, we have to go through a few more steps than most. Before folks came by dropping off info for power raking, Padre had us lined up in the front yard with one of these:

The original "power" rake. Similiar to an attachment barbers use to shave off hair.

Under our own kid power we combed through the lawn, in various directions, and yanked ratted grass from its roots at an extremely slow pace. Despite a few of us kids lined up side by side, we tugged through the yard with initial zeal.

Padre had a way of inspiring us to work hard to get the lawn looking sharp. Supplied with the proper tools, a good pair of gloves and Dad's enthusiasm, I tackled that lawn with all I had.

I must have secretly loved the work out. By noon the lines each child had rowed were of varying lengths and inevitably tufts of grass were left along with our power rakes on the lawn.

It was a long process.

So last night I asked Padre what his plans were for the yard. Did he plan on mowing, raking, or whatever before treating the lawn.

"Just run a rake through it and then mow it." he said. "Just a normal rake?" I questioned. "Yeh." "Or use the power rake. I think I did a disservice to the lawn back in the day. That kind of treatment just pulls the roots out."

whew.

"So instead of yanking really hard, just gently, go through it with the power rake."

He went on to describe some sort of attachment that could go on the lawn mower to increase the speed of the project.

So the next day I went out in the lovely sunshine and slowly started to rake, glad the hard power raking days were over. Pretty soon Padre came out and was loading up in the car. "where ya off to?" I asked. Thinking he might join in on the fun.

"To check out those power rake attachment. The rate you're going it will take a week."

My Sock Drawer Runneth Over- March Madness Beginnings

Does anyone else have socks disappear?

 

 (Or other articles of laundry?) I posed this question to a mother with a toddler around the time J was the same age, and she looked at me with mild bewilderment.

"No, I haven't." she said searching me, possibly wondering if I would be the kind of friend she would want to continue taking stroller walks with on sunny afternoons.

"Who loses their stuff in the laundry?" I wondered inwardly and almost started to feel guilty until I was watching Channel 10 with J one afternoon. The missing sock issue was showcased in an cartoon episode of a show we watched every day but now I can't recall.

Anyway, a cat was the culprit! I wasn't crazy! This sort of thing was big enough to incorporate into public television, heck it had to be a common problem! However, we didn't have a cat. But this cat was taking the socks for the 'sock exchange'.

To deal with this phenomenon we have a basket dedicated to holding misfit socks- until their mate is found.

I have found this "treasure trove" has to be sorted quarterly because, often more than not, the mate's sock is swimming somewhere in the same vicinity. But you don't know this until you actually take out all the socks and try to match them.

Not being able to find matching socks is the real reason why the term 'March Madness' was coined.

All basketball players are forced to either wear stinky, or mismatched socks, by the time the tournaments roll around. Or buy new ones.

Instead of focusing on the two people that got the Final Four right, I wanna know who is doing the laundry? Or going out and buying some when times are desperate? Who is finding the jerseys? Why are these champions NEVER highlighted in the commercials or newspapers? Or given air time on ESPN?

Either way, I can't wait until J tries to open his drawer because he is going to think Santa came and did his laundry.

Snow Ball, Jimmer's Mom and Old 'Best Players'

"If You're Not Practicing, Someone Else Is."

J read the quote accompanied with basketball clinic information and told me it didn't make sense.

"Oh, dear." I thought to myself, "If he doesn't get this, then we are in trouble."

"I'm always practicing. And if they're [his teammates] practicing, so am I."he said defensively.

"Very true." I sighed with relief.


(showing us how to dunk and hang on a nerf net. tape required.)

Thanks to Jimmer, the basketball frenzy has continued. I personally think it is awesome his mom is a sub teacher! If Jimmer thought playing bball in prison was tough, his mom prob put him in check with stories from sub teaching. Helps to put that kind of thing in perspective.

Instead of making Jaden go play ball in prison, I think I will make him sub teach at the HS.

A handful of his old "best players."

The one on the far left set a three point record for the HS, and all the boys chipped in to hold a record for the highest GPA for a boys team at Skyline. WOW!

The two little guys in front have a lot to live up to.