somewhere in America.
My daughter is a budding 12-year old who has taken an interest in softball this summer. I've had a few conversations with a couple of you about her coach not giving them enough practice and letting them learn everything the hard way. It's all been pretty frustrating, but we remember that it's all part of the process.
We are the Jaguars. Our claws are not that sharp and our teeth are not that pointy. Generally, we lose every game 12-0, but my daughter never complains. A few parents have taken their kids off the team because they don't want to be "associated with losers."
Now my daughter, she's a pretty big kid--powerful but as slow as a tortoise. She always hits the ball, but often has trouble getting to the bag before the ball. She can catch real well so she plays first base. The rest of the kids have a lot of trouble keeping it in thier mittens. Of course, there are some tiny ones on there who have trouble hitting the ball too. It's all a bit scary for them.
Follow the ball over the pitching mound...
Anyway, last weekend they had a tournament series and they suddenly found themselves at a great advantage because their rivals lost some of their best players to summer camp.
Due to this disparity, all the parents were feeling pretty good about our chances despite weeks of one loss after another. We're just the typical parents, we all just want to see our kids have a little taste of victory--just once before the summer is over.
Well, the umpire called "batter up!" and the the inning began with an explosive start. Our kids were hitting the ball like no one had ever seen them hit before. Even the little Orphelia who measures about 3ft and weighs about 60 pounds cracked one between the shortstops legs and into the weedy area where the outfield begins. My daughter, the slugger, came up and drove in two runs. She credited the cool black leather batting gloves given to her by grandpa.
Before we knew it, it was the 3rd inning and we were winning 11 to 0. All the parents were screaming and some were crying. There was talk of finally winning one.
We were all extatic. My heart was pounding and I was shouting like a fool.
My wife thought it was safe enough to send me down to get a couple of hot dogs and some sodas. The line was kinda long, but I could hear some action going on out on the field. I heard a lot of "boos" and "ahs" coming from our grandstands so I was pretty eager to squirt the dogs with some ketchup and mustard and get back.
When I found my place, I looked up at the scoreboard and it was 11-4 with no outs. My wife explained that the other team had hit a grand slam.
Between the shouts of "it's ok girls, we got a good lead, brush it off," we finished up our hot dogs. In the meantime, our pitcher walked three more just in time for their best hitter to come up and hit another grand slam in the same inning making it 11-8.
The kids pretty quickly became demoralized, started dropping the ball and just sorta moved naturally back into the groove of losing.
By the time it was over we lost the game 11-17.
Being good parents, we all gave our kids a hug and a kiss and took them out for ice cream and told them one more time that we'd surely have better luck next time.