"T" is for Tired Ball

Happy Fatherhood Friday everyone! Welcome to readers new and old. Thanks to dad-blogs.com for this great forum.

On Tuesday, I got to watch Big Brother's t-ball game for the first time (I've been to several practices, but missed the first game due to travel for work).

Big Brother's excitement level for t-ball was somewhere between drowsy and lethargic.

Apparently, rushing around to get to the game used up most of his excitement. The game started at 6pm, which is a little challenging for us, as Mom-E is also at work on Tuesdays.

I left work at 4:15, picked-up the boys from their at-home daycare, drove them home, fed them "dinner"/snacks (prepared the night before) (while letting them watch Bob the Builder--the only way to get Big Brother dressed when in a rush--and they have to eat before the game or they'll morph into Crabby Bears), and then drove to t-ball.

We made it into the car by about 5:40 (albeit neither child was wearing shoes). Big Brother hadn't taken a nap, and as I might've predicted, he fell asleep in the car.

We get to the t-ball field right at 6pm. I put Big Brother's shoes on first, and then wake him up. He is not thrilled to be at t-ball (and a wee bit groggy). He proceeds to sit down beside the car and mope while I put shoes on Little Brother and get him out of the car.

We head towards the field, I'm carrying Little Brother, Little Brother's sippy cup and hat, and the diaper bag, all the while using my cattle-prod voice to encourage Big Brother to move along.

As we're walking, Little Brother finds it amusing to pull off my hat, exposing my balding head to the 90-degree blazing sun (Oh spray-on sunscreen, where are you when I need you.)

I begin to wonder where the Candid Camera people are, or at the very least the whereabouts of neon sign over my head that reads "If you think this is funny, just wait 'til he's got 3."

(I'm sorry bab-e, you have no idea what you're getting into.)

*****

Already exhausted, we arrive midway through his team's first at-bat.

Big Brother goes through much of the game in a TOTAL FOG. Fortunately, he's out in left-center field, where absolutely NOTHING gets hit.

At one point, right in the middle of the game as someone is batting, he starts running right across the field towards me. You guessed it, he had to pee. Fortunately, Mom-E has arrived from work by this time, and is able to assist His Urinariness.

At a few other instances during the game, we spot Big Brother grabbing his crotch out in the outfield. Mom-E and I fear the worst (an impending pee-a-thon), but are relieved (pun intended) that he's just trying to keep his pants up. (He has a belt, but there is no such thing as baseball pants that fit 4 year-olds. Several small clowns could fit into those pants).

Big Brother gets to bat twice. He actually hits the ball pretty solidly up the middle (most of the kids hit just a little trickle to the pitcher's mound). However, after he hits, he stands there with NO idea what to do (or is too tired or too afraid to move).

This phenomenon generalizes to most of the kids. They hit the ball, and then stand there with a neon sign over their heads reading "What do I do now?" Only after much yelling encouragment from coaches and fans do the kids run to first base.

Big Brother manages to run the bases (most of them). He makes it to third. On the next hit, instead of heading home, he makes an excursion to the pitcher's mound (the more direct route back to the dugout).

His fatigue becomes even more evident as the game progresses. At the changover between innings, after all the other kids from his team have returned to the dugout, he's still standing out in left-center, staring aimlessly.

He has no clue that he's alone out there. Maybe it's because he's adjusted his hat so big that it's covering his eyes and most of his upper face.

To add insult to injury, there are two other kids there, one on each team, also named "Big Brother." This is another source of confusion, as he starts to run out of the dugout every time someone calls out, "Big Brother", even when it is not his turn.

At 7pm the game is over. Out of nowhere, the opposing team let's out a loud cheer, and the players run through a 10 yard-long tunnel created by the arms of the parents.

Big Brother, on the other hand, manages to be carried IN the arms of his parents, his head plunked down on my shoulder.

Now I know what they mean by "Take me out with the crowd."

We'll try it again next week, hopefully with a longer nap before the game.

Have a good weekend,
Busy-Dad-E