Last night was my son's first baseball practice. I always seem to forget, or bury it in the deep recesses of my mind, how much fun baseball season. The feelings repressed of disdain and annoyance and the other half of the parental figure for my son and just general chauvinism at it's worst.
Last week I received a message for my son's dad from the coach of my son's baseball team. A day after the coach called and spoke only to my son. As if my quickly approaching thirteen year old son has an excellent memory to remember the details of practice, good thing I was sitting next to him and could hear the entire conversation. So the next day, there was a message from the coach inquiring if my son's dad could assist with coaching. I called him back and informed him of how to reach his father (and it wasn't to call HELL!). Not once did the coach ask if I had any baseball experience or if I would like to help assist.
My son's dad had to confirm with my son when practice was last night and told him that he would be there. Think he could offer to drive the 1.5 miles out of the way to pick up our son and take him to practice so that I don't have to? Of course not.
There wasn't a meeting at the start of practice, other than for the boys. An introduction of the coaches - all six of them for twelve teenage boys! Seriously? How many men does it take to coach a team?
They are looking for someone to keep the stats. I think I'm going to go in cognito and unless specifically asked, I'm going to take a season off. The first season in almost seven years of score keeping!
After practice my son's dad called our son. Called him to ask if I could take our son to practice next Monday night. Didn't call me. Didn't ask me. At what point, will he grow up?
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