Another Day in the Country
Take me out to the ballgame
© Another Day in the Country
This past weekend, our family was at several ballgames in Hillsboro with a lot of other enthusiastic families.
We even sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and my grandson was shocked that I knew all the words.
Some of the players were “my kids.” I use that phrase meaning boys I’ve had in my art class at Centre this past couple of years. That includes Clayton, who also was in art, but I refer to him as my bonus grandchild since he’s really one of my cousin Gary’s grandchildren, whom I get to enjoy.
The boys were competing in a series of games with other kids their age for a chance to keep competing on a wider level.
“My kids” will get to compete next at Denver.
“Who would have thought they could win this?” I said to my sister.
Most of their relatives in the audience were thinking the same, I think.
I’ve been watching these kids play ball off and on for a while now, and I am pretty impressed at their prowess — although they probably wouldn’t know what that word means.
When I began watching them play ball together, they did good to even hit the ball.
When they were younger, failing at bat meant there might be a rush of tears. This weekend, I felt as if I were watching a very professional team.
They looked sharp! They snapped to if they were given advice from coaches. They were good sports — which, in my book, is a pretty tough and important lesson to learn.
I had to chuckle at all the advice the boys were receiving from their parents and grandparents in the stands.
One time, after a basketball game, I asked Clayton whether it was helpful to hear people hollering advice to him from the stands.
As I recall, he said he pretty much didn’t hear any of it. He was concentrating on the game.
Being a non-sports person who grew up pretty awkward even at catching a lobbed ball, I was impressed by the boys’ baseball skills.
These young pitchers, who I’d witnessed having trouble when they were younger just getting the ball thrown accurately to another player, were pitching strikes.
I was impressed. Every time they managed that, there was an approving “whoop” from the audience. I’m sure they heard that!
I was impressed with the catchers, squatting there in an insane position, one I could never hope to imitate, especially at my age.
I was impressed with the outfield and the various basemen. I was pretty much wowed by their coaches and proud of the lot.
As we came to the last game, I suggested that we not drag our lawn chairs and just go sit in the bleachers.
My crew agreed, and I proceeded to lead the way up to a third-row seat. Suddenly, there was sun in my eyes. I mis-stepped, my foot slid off a narrow rung, and, luckily, I fell onto a seat.
“I’m OK, I’m OK,” I said to my crew.
“I don’t think so,” my grandson said as he pointed to my leg. “There’s blood.”
What was hurting was my thigh. I’d landed hard on the bleacher seat while trying to regain my balance.
What visibly was injured, however, was my poor shin, which had been neatly barked of several inches of fragile skin.
I quickly staunched the bleeding. My sister got out her billfold, in which she carries bandages for emergencies.
In a quick minute, I concentrated on the game that was about to begin, trying to ignore the incident, but my family members still were concerned.
General concern of this nature accelerates as one ages. At least it seems that way to me. I suddenly felt like one of the boys who was up to bat, and all eyes were on him. Was he going to make a hit or strike out? Was this it for me? Was I about to strike out, too?
“Should we go to the emergency room?” my sister quietly asked me. “That’s quite a lot of skin removed from your shin.”
“I don’t think so,” I shook my head, not wanting to be the center of attention. “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?” my 17-year-old grandson challenged, “What about now?”
I shook my head negative.
He excused himself, and I knew he was calling someone for advice on how forceful he should be with his grandmother.
Sure enough, he came back up the bleachers and handed me his phone. It was my daughter, asking about blood loss, depth of abrasion, cleansing it.
I assured her this was an “I can handle this” kind of wound.
So, there we sat, several generations of varied ages and experience, playing the game of life on another day in the country.