All-Stars Doesn't Matter

The kids are out of school, the sun is out, and pools are open.  Incredikids wake up late, play on ipads and phones, and spend their lazy days enjoying some time off to just be kids.  For some kids, they will start that (almost) impossible journey towards a small town in Pennsylvania that hosts a major sporting event every August...the Little League World Series.  These Incredikids, the All-Stars from your town, will sacrifice many days and weeks of unfettered freedom to play the game they love for a few extra weeks, or if they are lucky, a few months.  But this post is for the kids that didn't make the team.

My son recently asked me about my playing all stars, and nothing really stuck out.  I had to dig deep to remember the teams I played on. After thinking about it, I remembered that thirty-one years ago, I didn't make my league's 12 year-old all-star team.  I remember finding out I didn't make it, and wondering how could this happen to me?  I was a very good little leaguer, and it was the only time I didn't make an all-star team until my days in the minors.  I remembered being crushed...for about 27 minutes.  My parents were upset, I was upset, but they reminded me of all that I accomplished that year...probably over some tears.  I woke up the next day and it didn't matter as much.  Two days later, I didn't even think about playing baseball for whatever our league was called in one guaranteed tourney.  I spent the summer playing Marco-Polo at the public pool, playing 9 inning games of strikeout on the Wildwood upper playground with Dave and Adam, and playing epic kick-the-can games with the neighborhood kids until moms starting calling "dinner" and we all scrambled home.  We played so hard we just dropped into bed each night hoping these lazy days would last forever.  Baseball was the last thing I was thinking about when we were taking the bus to the top of town, and then having treacherous 3 mile downhill races back home.  All-Stars didn't matter.

The next three years I made the all-star teams in Babe Ruth, and played with kids from other towns at San Leandro Ball Park.  It was fun, I guess, but I was actually a bit jealous of my friends who were free to continue what we did the summer before.  I remember being picked up at the pool and changing in the car while my friends and great times disappeared behind our wood-paneled station wagon while I was dragged to practice.  I'm not sure the game was even that much fun those years since my best buds were not with me.  Sure, I met some cool kids from other towns, but I couldn't name a single one of them today.  All-Stars didn't matter.

As my Incredikid's summer started this week, he and I have been bachelors for the past three days.  Those days, without baseball, have been three of the best days of my life.  We bobbed in the pool to escape the heat, caught a movie, played golf, played catch with the football and baseball, ordered too much take-out, and even went to watch a different little league play a ball game.  We will find out this weekend if he makes the team, and in all likelihood he will.  He and the kids he competes against all season will band together and dream of playing in PA.  It's going to be fun to watch them close the little league careers they started together so many years ago on the hot, and I'm talking face of the sun here, baseball diamonds in our county.

However, if your kid doesn't make your team, remind them that it doesn't matter what you do when you are 10, 11, or 12.  Baseball's can still be thrown in backyards, minor league games are just a short car ride and a few bucks away, and there are plenty of chances to sit down and enjoy the game as father/mother/son/daughter.  Baseball is about listening to Bill King on an AM radio spinning heroic tales of the Swing'n A's on a summer night.  It's about the crack of the bat, trading cards, and backyard whiffle ball games pretending its the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs in the World Series. 

If you kid didn't make the team, he or she will feel bad for a moment.  It's okay to for them to be mad, but this game isn't about all-stars.  Make sure you don't get mad too.  It's not your place, no one is trying to screw your kid over, cut his career short, or harm his reputation.  Maybe your Incredikid is a good at-bat away from impressing the coaches, or maybe he or she is just not good enough...this year at least.  Don't blame the coaches, the league, and for damn sure don't act like he or she should have played harder or better.  It's not about you at all.  This game is about the feel of the glove snagging a ball, the smell of the pine-tar on your bat, and the struggle of trying to master an impossible game.  It's about family, friends, and hot dogs.  All of those things don't require all-star status.  It's okay for a few tears to be shed, but remind your player that baseball is about much so more than a few extra games and another team hat.  All-Stars doesn't matter.

I can tell you from personal experience that your child's high school career, chance of at playing in college, or even getting drafted by an MLB team does not depend on making the 12 year-old all-star team.  Remind your player that baseball is so much bigger than a few weeks this summer, and to never give up on their dreams.  Just for the fun of it, you can tell your Incredikid that no one from my league's all-star team made it anywhere near as far as I did in baseball...all-stars really doesn't matter.

Travel Ball...That Smile Inducing, Weekend Stealing, Well Worth it Time Suck

I'm a multi-sport advocate.  I don't believe in specializing for kids, and I've talked to many coaches at the highest levels and they don't believe it in either.  The only coaches that want year round anything for kids are AAU/travel coaches looking to make money off you, or selfish d-bag high school coaches whose only interest is their record.  We'll visit the concept of specialization in another post.  This post is about playing lots of sports...all at once!

This past weekend marked our first foray into the world of travel baseball.  Incredikid has always shown a propensity for the game.  It was my game, and because of that, I've tried not to push him towards the sport in which I had the most success.  I've said "no" when asked if we could guest play on travel ball teams, told Incredikid I would not allow him to play travel anything...up until now.  I caved, and it was the best weekend ever. 

Incredikid has played AAU basketball, and while it's competitive, it's certainly not a crazy schedule.  They play about as many games as we did in Rec-ball growing up, but they have shiny uniforms, better coaching, and better competition.  They play locally, and get a bit more than they would playing true Rec.  The result...they are way better than we were at that age.  Are any of them going to the NBA because of it?  Heck no, but they have fun, look cool, and think they are budding stars.

However, I had concerns about travel baseball.

First, I was worried about too many games. I had heard what I consider horror stories of kids playing 60+ baseball games a year.  Not only does it violate my rule of play everything you want until you can't play it anymore (its impossible to play 60+ games and play anything else), but it's just a lot of baseball games.  I can remember the great relief after the college baseball season ended (about 60 games in all) knowing I had some time off before summer-ball started.  Just being a student, and not a student-athlete, was a refreshing experience even if only for a month.  Baseball fatigue is a real thing, and it's great to rest arms (and knees for us catchers), and hangout by the Rec Pool on a well-earned break.  For a kid to play 60 games...I just feel it's nuts, but if the kid truly enjoys it, then shoot, if he's not going to play anything else then more power to him (just protect his/her arm please). 

Second, I was worried about being spread too thin.  With winter baseball and basketball, Incredikid is going pretty close to 6 days a week.  The funny thing is, after living it, the parents were the the only ones who got tired.  For example, after 5 days of practice in a row (in one sport or the other), Incredikid asked for "extra-work" at the batting cage on Friday.  This was his only day off last week, and he wanted to go hit?  I dragged myself to go throw some batting practice after work wondering if I was losing it.  Friday night, I walked in to see two uniforms neatly laid out on his bedroom floor ready to be packed in the car. So far so good, instead of playing on the iPad he was laying out his gear, something strange is going on here.  On Sunday morning, when we had to leave the house at 6:30 am to get to the first baseball game (one of two that day), I wandered half asleep down the hall bummed to have to wake him up only to find him sitting in bed waiting for me.  He was ready to get up, get dressed, and get rolling.  Wait...this is the kid that will sleep till Noon if we would let him, and he's up at 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday?  Who is this kid, and what have you done with Incredikid? 

Third, I was worried playing too many games feeling like work.  Playing in the minors was work.  It doesn't sound like it, but playing 29 of 30 days, riding buses, eating on $15 per day, and staying in worse-than-Motel-6's was work.   After my first season of work, I didn't really love the game anymore...it was a job. I don't want Incredikid to feel like any sport is a job.  Sport is fun, and unless you ever get paid to do it, you play purely for joy.  Sure, there are times when fun sports are work.  I hated conditioning, with a passion, during my sports years, but the games always made it worthwhile. Is the preparation part is worth the fun, that's a question you should ask your kid.  I have always thought this was the case with Incredikid, but I got my answer on Sunday night.  Sunday night before bed, after six games, two round-trips to two cross-town venues, changing/eating in the car, and getting up before the roosters he looked at me and said, "that was the best weekend ever."  He literally passed out asleep  minutes later with a smile on his face...I knew then it wasn't work!

We will continue down this path of multi-sports as long as he loves it.  Is it a sacrifice for Superdad and Wondermom?  Yup. We were both exhausted when we got home from game 6 and took early evening naps.  We're already bummed that have only six more years left with him at home, and I'm going to treasure every minute.  Sharing a ride to and from sports, reminicing about a shot, pitch, or swing in the evening while he dreams of tomorrow is just about the best thing ever.

What about Incredikid after the weekend...was he too exhausted?  Well, after we dropped on the couch Sunday, he changed and came bounding down the stairs to go outside and play an "epic" semi-dark touch football game with his buds (there was a heated instant replay discussion about whether a receiver's foot was on the curb or out for the game winner).  So while he might have been whipped, based on the look on his face as he sprinted out the door, he was amazingly satisfied.  That look, of pure satisfaction and joy, will keep me driving, cheering, and early-evening napping for as long as he wants.

Old Guys, Orange Aprons, and Potty Talk

My dad truly is Superdad.  He was an athlete, and he looks like he could still play linebacker for San Jose St. He is a bread-winner, provider, and my biggest fan.  He's passed on how to throw a football, catch a fly ball, and how to foul a guy hard in hoops.   There were life lessons in everything, including the myriad of crappy chores assigned to me every weekend.  Unlike the Karate Kid, I didn't get a damn thing out of them except callouses, lost time with my buddies growing up, and use of the VW.  I can read a how-to-book as well as the next guy, but I'm fully exposed the minute I walk into Home Depot.

I can follow directions.  I've built bikes, cribs, and even put together a small computer network for our office.  I'm a relatively educated guy, and that's what makes this so embarrassingly sad for my father.  My recent problem was a crapper.  You pulled the handle, and it wouldn't flush.  I know how to deal with obstructions. Don't tell me you haven't had to reach for the stick of shame sitting next to the bowl a time or two.  It's quite possibly the easiest tool known to man.

Two things about this problem: (1) it wasn't me, and (2) this was a problem of function and not from too much fiber.  My post-golf Sunday afternoon slumber was rudely interrupted by the panicked call of an 8 year old princess.  I opened the back of the toilet, jiggled some stuff, and determined the connector to the upwards pipe water feeder tube looked like it might have some wet-rot. Incrdi-mom said we should call a plumber, but I knew I had this.  Off to the Depot to get some parts.

I walked in rocking Euro-awesomeness...white sunglasses, slips with ankle socks, pink golf shirt, grey plaid shorts with my white belt, and my long hair hanging out of my golf visor.  I ignored the disapproving look from the WWII era greeter, and found the plumbing aisle all by myself (I can read after all).  I knew I was screwed the minute I made the right turn onto Aisle 27.  

There was precisely 100 yards of plumbing stuff.  Apparently shit, or more appropriately getting rid of shit, is big business.  I spent an ungodly amount of my precious free time trying to figure out what I needed by myself.  We had house guests coming and I needed to get that crapper flowing in 45 minutes or less or I would have to let them use MY personal throne...oh...hell...no.  So I did what no man wants to do...I succumbed to that testicle-punch doorbell thingy and rung for help.  When the orange strobe light started flashing I knew I would sincerely regret the move.

I waited for a few minutes acting cool like it wasn't me who pressed the button of shame, and pretended to peruse the aisle of stoppers, handles, and gaskets.  I had just about given up when around the corner comes my nightmare.  Into to Aisle 27 turned a 75 year-old ex-marine with perfectly cropped white flat-top.  He was rocking comfortable work boots, blue jeans with a crease, a light flannel shirt in 100 degree weather, and that unmistakable orange apron. 

This is not Milt, but I found this on Google in 10 seconds.  Must be a uniform.

Milton (from his name tag) looks me up and down with a disapproving look.  "Howdy" pops out of my mouth like I'm riding the ol' range.  What the F was that...howdy?  Milt senses my fear.   "I'm Milt ... you the one that rung the pussy bell?" Okay, he really said "can I help you", but I knew what he meant with that overly helpful tone.  I can tell this guy knows everything about home repair from the massive amount of flair on his apron.  Milt doesn't like long hairs, guys that don't shave on the weekends, or guys that make time to play golf.  Golf is a waste of four hours that could be dedicated to a home project, and slips are worn at the gym when a real man walks buck-naked from the showers to his locker, towel around his neck, with his junk swinging uncomfortably about.  Milt is a man who has lots of tools and knows what they are all called.  I'm the devil in pink. 

Milt asks what's wrong, and I proceed to act out the toilet situation.  Think charades with sound effects.   I explain in no less than 15 gestures, a few body poses, and several air-drawings what I think I need.  First thing out of his mouth ... "rectangle or irregular?"  Oh no...what is he talking about?  I know for a fact Milt was screwing with me because all toilets are square...right?  I tried to buy myself a minute ignoring the question and stumbling stupidly about talking potty talk.  I looked at the product I held in my hand that I'd pulled off the shelf before he got there and it said "Universal Toilet Handle...Fits BOTH Square and Oval Toilets."  Thank God for good packaging.  I knew it wouldn't matter so I confidently guessed "square" (it's actually an oval).   Milt knew I was bullshitting and he was going to have some fun.  

Milt asked me a series of questions I could not comprehend about water pressure, gaskets, raw materials, and finishes.  I calmly nodded and blurted out something I'd heard my old man say many times...."I'm planning on overhauling the guts."  The difference is my dad knows what the guts actually are composed of.  To Milt it just made Milt look at me like I was a little boy dressed for a tea-party.  Milt snatched some stuff out of a few bins, and handed me $20 of parts I had no idea if I needed.  There were flappers, chains, handles, and gaskets.  "You ever done this before" he asked.  I said "no," but the package he'd handed me said "Level 3 of 10" on the "Home Depot Idiot Home Improvement Scale."  I can handle a damn 3/10 any day.  Milt chuckled a disapproving I-hate-pink-shirt-white sunglasses wearing-cell phone internet surfing-yuppies in my aisle laugh.  He says, "don't forget to turn the water off before you start" as he walked away with a look that screamed he couldn't wait to tell all the guys in the back about me. I bolted outta there like I'd stolen all that gut-fixing-gasket stuff.  For the record, I knew to turn off the damn water.

I was right, I could handle a 3/10, but what I can't handle are any more trips to Home Depot.  So to my awesome dad, who literally built a freaking house I say, "thanks for teaching me ALMOST everything I needed to know about being a man" and why didn't you tell me orange aprons are my Kryptonite.

SuperCoach, and Little League Parents

It's the hardest second job ever.  The money sucks with horrible pay (as in nada), and in reality you'll spend plenty of money on stuff for the kids and get shorted by the parents but you don't care.  If you do it right, you'll spend tons of hours working for clients who don't really know what they want.  With that said, moms and dads have been sneaking out of work early year after year for pleasure of spending time coaching kids at the fields, courts, and pools for the love of their kids and the game.

Let's meet SuperCoach.

Let's start with a little history as youth sports have evolved over the years.  In my youth, we rode our bikes to practice with our gloves threaded over the handlebars, and our cleats tied together hanging over our necks.  Practice unis consisted of blue jeans, a concert tee-shirt, and of course, your team's dusty adjustable mesh-backed lid.    We would show up to the high school field and wait for them to finish.  We would and take batting practice off the one dad who could make it in time, eat sunflower seeds, and spit like the pros.  We had a bag of a few bats we all shared, and some crusty old helmets that contained little padding, and smelled like gym socks or worse. I can't remember seeing a piece of new equipment in a bag after my first year of little league.

Today, there are at least four or five coaches for each baseball team (7-8 for football).  The kids show up wearing practice uniforms, Oakley sunglasses, $200+ composite bats, customized flat-brimmed hats, and batting gloves hanging out of their back pockets.  They practice on pristine fields with grass infields, covered dugouts, and have scoreboards tracking pitch counts.  They don't ride their bikes to the field, but rather are dropped off by minivan or SUV.  These kids are big-leaguers from the start...and that's just in little league.  There are travel ball teams that have better swag than the Pittsburgh Pirates, and they'll fly across country to play in tournaments.  To put it simply...Little League is the new "Big Leagues."  The thing is, they're not the big leagues...this stuff is just for fun and we just can't forget that fact (more below).

Super Coach gets one or maybe two official practice days a week to mold his group of kids into a winning machine (or at least make the kids into players that can run the bases counterclockwise), but will often schedule time on the weekends or whenever he can to help the kids develop at the local batting cages.  Super Coach has to sneak out of the office early on game day to prep the field, throw whiffle-ball batting practice till his arm falls off, and then wrangle this gaggle of cats into game readiness.  The thing is Super Coach loves the game, his kid, the the other kids, and is good friends with that 4-eyed ump that blows every call.  In little league, the baseball isn't the hard part...often times its those behind the fence that makes life difficult for Super Coach and the kids.

Look around your stands at the next game...you'll see some of these folks in front of you, next to you, or it might just be you:

Day-Care Parent.  These parents drop their kids off a few minutes early, and often show up late to pick up.  They barely slow down as they kick their kid out of the side of the minivan on their way to something they actually care about.  Their kids will miss practice for Cub Scouts, band practice, or just because practice is far away and they just aren't feeling it.  Day-Care Parent never works with his or her kid at home, but whines the loudest to know why Junior isn't playing well, playing enough, or having a great time.  Why can't my kid catch?  Well, have you ever practiced with him...SuperCoach already knows the answer, but asks anyway.  Day-Care Parent skips lots of games, but loves the fact they get 6-8 hours of day-care a week for the price of registration.

MLB Dad.  MLB dad thinks Junior, at 10, is going to the "Bigs."  News Flash to MLB Dad...the best player in [insert your town name here] is not going to the Major Leagues.  I was at the gym several years back and a friend approached me and said he wanted to introduce me to a guy whose kid was going to play college baseball.  My friend thought I might have some advice for this passionate baseball dad being a former player.  This dad told me all about his son, his travel ball team, and the fact his son was playing year round and would play more than 90 baseball games that year.  My first thought...that sucks for that kid, what about soccer, football, basketball or swimming? Anyway, this young man had both a personal hitting and pitching coach, and this Superdad was "pretty sure he would choose college over the draft."  Holy cow, was I talking to the father of the next Ken Griffy, Jr. (Bryce Harper for you young people)?  Was this some phenom who would be called on the first day of the upcoming Amateur draft?  Nope...this Incredikid was 12!  Yup, 12 freaking years old with hitting and pitching coaches? MLB Dad's kid looks in the stands after every pitch, never has a fun time, and doesn't even smile after a win.  MLB Dad can't keep his mounth shut, and tries to coach Junior during every at-bat from the stands.  MLB Dad lives in Fantasy F-ing Land, and whether he knows it or not the pressure is killing his poor kid, and his kid will hate him, the game, or both if he keeps pushing him.

Ex-Player Dad.   Ex-Player Dad knows the game, and how it should be played, and just can't come to grips with flat hats no matter how hard he tries.  Ex-Player Dad doesn't like showy players, and learned the game from watching Pete Rose on the This Week in Baseball. Getting dirty is how the game is played, and Ex-Player Dad cares more about seeing hustle than success, but beams with pride when he sees his kid play the game the "right way."  Ex-Player Dad doesn't think about his kid going pro because he knows the odds, and moreover that luck and opportunity (i.e. staying healthy) are as important as talent and drive. Ex-Player Dad knows if it's going to happen, it won't be because of him, but it he won't be a bar to progress either.  It is a delicate balance of providing the kid the platform for success and the occasional shove, but preserving his desire to play the game.  Push too hard, it's over by high school.  If the kid is going to make it, you'll know it, and it will be because he loves the feeling of hitting the ball, making the great play, or throwing the 3-2 fastball for a called third...not because you lit him up after a strikeout looking.  The kids that make it love taking batting practice, playing catch, or just watching the game.  

The Proudies.  The reality is most of us fall somewhere in between on the spectrum above. We want the best for our kids, and try to give them every opportunity, but we recognize the realities of the situation. The bottom line is all parents should be beaming with pride when his or her kid steps to the plate, free-throw line, or up on the block.  If your kid hits home runs, dominates on the mound, wins every race, or bombs three-pointers, it's easy.  Sure you should be proud.  But, as a coach and parent, I find I'm far more proud of the kid who gets his first hit 6 games into the season or the one who fights off five fouls balls and gets a dinker single.  It takes a tremendous amount of guts to get into the batter's box knowing you've had little or no success, but digging in anyway and giving it your all.  Sports are fun, but they can be scary too.  I'm proud of all of the kids, and whether or not they succeed, but I'm beaming with pride if my kids are out there diving for a ball, making a special play, or just digging hard down the line to beat out a grounder.

Reality

I would never squash a kid's dreams of playing anything professionally, and I'm fortunate enough to have had that chance however brief.  I remember asking my dad if I could play pro-ball (about 10-12 years old), and he said "of course, you can do anything."  Well, that's a nice line, but the reality is there are tons of guys like me.  We actually beat the odds and got drafted, played in the minors, and yet we aren't retired at 40.  What happened?  Reality happened...ohh, this is gonna hurt MLB Dad.


The reality is 1 in 11,437 little league baseball players will take the field as a Major League Baseball player. Take that in for a second.  A very large little league probably has 500 kids, so that's one kid out of more than 20 leagues making the big leagues.  The Bigs are probably out (MLB dad still actually thinks his kid is the one).  Hey MLB dad...that's .00009%

Well, shoot, the odds of making the Minor Leagues are far better right?  At least my little Johnny can have the "Bull Durham" experience...more like bullshit.  The odds of those same little-leaguers just making the Minors...the odds are 1 in 2,298 or .04%.

One more thing, if your kid doesn't have the physical gifts, and I'm talking about those you are born with, it doesn't matter how much batting practice you force him to take, he's gonna be in the stands next to you watching the A's (and that's not a bad thing), but he won't set foot on a major league field unless he is cutting the grass.  Most of the drafted players have ungodly arms, can run like jack-rabbits, have lightening fast hands, and/or all of the above.  I've seen some of the greatest infield plays of my life in A ball...far from the fresh cut grass in Yankee Stadium.  NO ONE GETS DRAFTED ON THEIR LITTLE LEAGUE PERFORMANCE.

So, let Johnny Rocket-arm play with his buddies, but if it's not working out, that's okay too.  I've been around the game a very long time as a player, umpire, coach, and now as a parent.  I love the passion my son shows for the game, and he's pretty darn good at it too.  However, I have no illusions that Incredikid is going to make his living swinging a bat or throwing a ball.  Nope, he's going to do it swinging a golf club.  Okay, probably not that either, but he might make some money taking a client out to the golf course or throwing a game with his boss for a promotion (never do that son).  Anyway, I have a goal to make sports fun for the Incredikids.  That might mean hours of throwing batting practice at the park, catching bullpens in the yard, or rolling grounders, but only if the Incredikids want to be there.  There are times when it's work for them...sure, that's how we learn anything, but I always ask myself who am I doing this for?  If the answer is me, then it's not something that needs to be done.  My father had it right...he would help me train anytime I asked (it was often long and painful for him), but he almost never made me do anything I didn't want to do, and certainly it was never for him.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't coach kids hard to learn to play hard, and honor the game and opponents they play.  If the kids have the passion, they put that pressure on themselves, they don't need us adding to it!  I remember one of my coaches from little league driving us down to Oakland to play the Fruit Loops and the other Kellogg sponsored teams.  We would pile in his yellow suburban, all 12 of us (yeah, no seat-belts baby), and roll down to play in Oakland.  Our parents were hardly ever there, and we played hard every day in the powdery all dirt fields of Alameda County.  Some of my best memories are playing on that team, and coming home to tell my folks how great we played.  Maybe sports were purer then, but we can make them that way again.  Cheer hard, be positive, and don't be that douche yelling "strike three" when you team gets a big strikeout.

Greatness is Not Acheived on Level Playing Fields

I'm embarrassed.  I'm embarrassed that I actually believed we had sunk to parenting lows with "everybody gets a trophy" leagues.  I was wrong...I admit it.  The latest concept is the "your kid is too good for the league" parent.  No, I'm not talking about Incredi-kid, but his joining the Little League Major division is where I finally saw this concept first hand.  PA-THE-TIC.

This year Incredi-kid was drafted into the Majors.  I was concerned he would struggle since he is 10, and most of the kids are 11 or 12.  I believed his skills had developed enough for him to meet the challenge of playing up.  So, I decided not to sign up for baseball as a coach, and then volunteer to help on whatever team (or level) that Incredikid landed.  Well, he was drafted to the defending champs who have 2 of the best returning players in the entire league.  I've been around baseball a long time, and these kids are really good.  One of them happens to be 5'10 or so, and more athletic and strong than just big.  We'll call him the "Beast."  The Beast mashes at the plate, and throws fire from the mound.  Now, Incredikid is 5'1, pretty tall for a 10 year old, but he's a beanpole and looks downright puny next to this monster.  I must admit, one of my prouder moments was watching him dig-in at the plate during a practice against the Beast early in the year.  He struck out, but stood in like a champ fouling a few off before he went down swinging.  12 year old versus 10 year old...this was the expected outcome, but overcoming that fear in week two of practices was really important for Incredikid.

The Beast isn't the biggest kid in the league eitiher.  There is a bigger kid who is 6'2 at 12 (the "Giant")...yup, he's my size and maybe a little bigger after seeing him on the mound last night (more below).  Anyway, there is a group of parents that believe these kids, who are just much bigger and more talented than theirs, are a "danger" to the other kids in the league and should be banned from pitching.  No, its not really because they fear their kids safety as no kid has suffered any real injury from one of these flamethrowers...it's because they are just too good.  These parents claimed it is based on size, but they aren't calling for that gumpy kid who couldn't throw a pitch through a wet paper bag's ban. No, they are okay with that lobber since little Johnny can hit against him even though he's six foot as well.  They want the studs removed to give little Johnny Strikeout a better chance at the plate.  They hide behind calling the kids "unsafe" and spread fantastic tales of knocking kids out with pitches (that never happened) to push their agenda.  The real agenda is to get give their kid a better chance to get a hit.

My recommendation to these "field-levelers" is to pull Johnny Strikeout out of the league today as his safety is being threatened.  No, not his physical safety.  The Beast is too good, and he's only hit one kid all year.  He, the Giant, and a few others have amazing control that goes with their great velocity.  No, you need to pull Johnny because you are RUINING HIM FOR LIFE.  Yes, all caps means I'm yelling.  There is no field-leveling in life.  If we all played on a level playing field, we'd all be mediocre, and that sucks for the world.  You are making your kid mentally weak.   I don't care whether it's swimming, basketball, or gymnastics, there is always that kid that's bigger, faster, stronger, and just better.  One must learn the skills to work harder, longer, and try a little harder than you are used to, and the fields, pools, and tracks are places we learn this valuable skills.  Greatness is not achieved on level playing fields.

Dick Hoyt is a hero of mine.  His son Rick can't walk or speak without a computer (Rick has cerebral palsy), but Team Hoyt has raced over 1091 times including the Iron Man Kona and 5 other Iron Man triathlons.  Team Hoyt is amazing, and the story is better than I can summarize in a paragarph.  Watch this video, and try to hold back the tears (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxqe77-Am3w), when you see Rick's face at 3:10 as they fly through the lava fields in Kona.  Team Hoyt doesn't need help, a hand up, or a special accommodation. They freaking rock the races, and together achieve greatness!  What they do is so awesome because they overcome so much.  A 65 year old guy shouldn't be able to tow his son 2.4 miles in a boat while swimming amongst thousands of competitors in open water.  How does that same father carry his son112 miles on the bike through the brutal winds and blazing heat of the Kona lava fields, and then push him all 26.2 miles of the a marathon in just over 13 hours?  It's not fair after all.  He's got it harder than the rest, and it's more difficult for them to win.  The look on Rick Hoyt's face as they come down the finish shoot with his right arm triumphantly raised...that is why it must be done.  Overcoming great odds is greatness defined.

Our kids cannot always be great.  Life just doesn't work that way, and being great all the time would make it boring.  Being great is being a 10 year old and facing the Beast, the Giant, or whatever nickname you have for the best player in the league.  This is not a new deal folks, there has always been some kid with whiskers at 12, and he is just better than everyone else.

Overcoming the fear...yes, its scary for the kids to face gas at the plate is bravery.  Glory often follows.  It maybe gloriously fouling off a few pitches before striking out, or  lacing a line drive into left field for a single as Incredikid did last night off the Giant (yup, I'm bragging).  The smile on Incredikid's face as he ran down the line was one I will never forget.  It was one of those defining moments where you see your child achieve in the face of adversity that doesn't happen on a level playing field.

This morning Incredikid had a little extra bounce in his step and shine to his smile.  Last night, if just for a moment, Incredikid tasted greatness.  That little taste...that feeling of absolute accomplishment, will serve as fuel him to taste it again in the classroom, on the field, and hopefully in life.

When Being Super Isn't Enough

We Superdads and Wondermoms think we can do it all for our kids.  We give life, feed, bathe, house, and train them on how to be...well how to just be anything and everything.  We strive for perfection in all ways, a perfect childhood full of cake and rainbows, but the reality is that's not how life works not matter how hard we try.  This week, however, this Superdad was confronted with the most difficult thing about being a parent.  This week, no matter what I could do, I was unable to protect my family, and especially my daughter, from the pain of loss. 

We all experience loss, it's a reality of humanity, and we all need to learn how to deal with it.  We hope that kids even get to know loss until they are ready to deal with it emotionally.  When might that be?  God only knows, but a broken heart is not something a 7 year-old should suffer.  Thankfully, our situation was the loss of a pet family member, but the feeling of helplessness was horrific nonetheless.  We've all heard the horror stories of kids getting sick, parents dying far too young, or family members suffering catastrophic injuries.  As I type this, I can only imagine how heartbreaking it must be to be confronted anything like that.  I got a taste of sorrow this past weekend, it's a drink I know we will all have again, but I just hope it's not for a long time.

On Wednesday night we noticed Incredi-daughter's cat was missing.  I know what some of you are thinking, "a cat, who f-ing cares?"  Well, my family loves our animals, and always will. If you think there is something wrong with loving your pets as family members, you won't like this blog or me so click that little "x" in the upper right hand corner and considering not coming back.  This blog is not for you.

Four years ago, we lost one of our cats to a car.  It was so sad, but Incredi-daughter was only two, so she never really got it.  Six months later, we decided to get the Incredi-kids kittens for Christmas.  We met with two different families who had kittens, but neither had two available.  Family Number One was a nice family in our home town. Sure, their house smelled a combination of stinky feet, cat piss, and mac n' cheese, but they were local and had a cute little kitten was there and available.  Thankfully, and you'll see why, they only had one left.  The second family was not very close, but they had what we really wanted, a Russian Blue like the one we lost.  We walked in and instantly got nervous.  First of all, they were clearly big-time stoners.  There was a bong on the table (they didn't try to hide), video games on the TV, plenty of bloodshot eyes, and three grey kittens running all over the place.  They clearly loved their cats though, and we told them we would see them on Christmas Eve to pick up the male kitten.  Then fate stepped in.


On the night before Christmas Eve, I called to arrange to pick up the kitten from Family Number One the next day.  The dad stammered and said he was "real sorry, but all the kittens died when the heater in the garage kinda conked out a few days ago...I don't have nothing for ya."  I was so pissed, pissed for my daughter, pissed for those little kitties, but mostly pissed because my perfect plan was a mess.

I had one kitten all lined up from the Stoners, but where in the hell was I going to get a cat on Christmas Eve?  I immediately went online and found a 24-hour vet in the hood that had "kittens available."  I called and they had two left, so first thing in the morning I was off to find the replacement.  I walked into the vet's office and there was a big birdcage with two kittens in it.  The first was a black kitten that I had to jab to see if it was alive.  No go...this was for Incredi-daughter, and she would not like such a boring cat.  The second cat was this super-cute fluff-ball that was literally hanging upside down in the birdcage meowing. She seemed pretty crazy, and I didn't want a long haired cat.   I asked the receptionist if there were other kittens, and she said, "are you crazy, it's Christmas Eve."  Yeah, I realize that stupid...sorry I asked, go back to your nails and let me take the fluff-ball into the play room to try it out.  It was a disaster, the damn thing wouldn't sit still long enough for me to even pet it.  So my choice was Sleepy or Crazy.  I chose crazy since I figured Crazy wasn't going to die and ruin Christmas.

On Christmas morning Incredi-kids opened up two special presents that had been smuggled into the house only minutes before from the garage.  The kids went nuts, and immediately named the grey cat "Gray" and the fluffy cat "Fluffy."  The names were perfect in their simplicity, and ended up fitting them both perfectly as they grew up.  Incredi-daughter immediately took Fluffy down the hall, and reappeared minutes later pushing that crazy-ass kitten in a stroller wrapped in a blanket.  That amazing little spaz sat perfectly still...it was love at first sight for both of them.

Both cats were immediately part of the family, but most of all, Fluffy was best friends with Incredi-daughter.  Fluffy slept with her, played with her, and followed her from room to room anytime we were home.  The bond was shocking considering what I thought I had adopted, and we were just so happy to see our not-too-emotional daughter showering this ball of fur with love.  It was not a one-way street with them either, and they were best friends from day one.  Incredi-daugher rarely let me get out of the pet store without a princess collar or toy for Fluffy.  That cat was truly loved.

So, fast-forward 3.5 years, and Fluffy goes missing on Wednesday night.  Wondermom and I panicked, and looked everywhere thinking how hard this could be for Incredi-daughter.  This was unusual for Fluffy to be missing, but she had once hidden in the house all night so we remained optimistic.  Optimism faded during the day on Wednesday when she was still gone, but thankfully Fluffy was discovered in a new hiding space later that afternoon.  Disaster avoided, and we all breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The rest of the family went to San Diego on Thursday night, but I had to stay behind until early Saturday for work.  I came home late after dropping them at the airport and played with the cats.  I was so thankful Fluffy was home safe, and she got extra petting from me just because.  I looked at our 13 year-old cat and worried how the kids would take it when she goes, but she is healthy and happy so my thoughts went back to watching the hockey playoffs on TiVo.

I woke up Saturday morning at 4:30 a.m., and I couldn't find any of the cats.  I had to leave to catch my plane, so I searched everywhere.  I knew they weren't out, so I made sure the cats has run of the house and took off.  I would be back in 24 hours, and they had plenty of food and water.  I didn't think much of the hiding, but in hindsight, I should have known something was up.

We had an amazing day on Saturday, and I was so proud of my kids at the San Diego Zoo on Sunday. We walked everywhere, they didn't fight at all, and by the end of the day we were all done, cooked, finished.  Incredi-daughter talked about Fluffy the entire day, and told me at least 10 times she couldn't wait to see her cat when we got home.  Every cat we saw at the zoo did something like Fluffy.  It was so cute to hear her rave about her baby-kitty.

When we pulled down our street late that night, I told everyone to jump out of the car before I open the garage door to make sure the cats don't run out.  There aren't many worse ways to wake up than to hear our cats howl to get back into the house at 3 a.m.  The door went up, no cats ran out, and I pulled in and closed the door behind me.  Mission accomplished.  Incredi-daughter instantly ran into the house calling for Fluffy.  A few minutes later she found me unloading the car and told me she couldn't find Fluffy anywhere. I asked if she checked my room, and she said "no, but will you help me?" 

We went upstairs and sure enough saw Fluffy sleeping under my beside table from the doorway. Alexa bubbled, "oh, there you are!"   I instantly thought was odd that she didn't come greet us, but they tend to get mad when we leave them alone overnight (seriously).  Incredi-daughter dove on the ground to pet Fluffy, and then I knew something was wrong.  The cat didn't move.  Incredi-daughter petted her and tried to hug her, but looked up and said, "something is wrong." I jerked Incredi-daughter off the floor and threw her on the bed.  While she watched from over my shoulder, I gently pulled Fluffy out from under the table and immediately knew that she was dead.  Unbelievable, from sorrow, to joy, to total disaster in a period of 4 days.

Incredi-daughter let out a scream I never want to hear again the rest of my life.  It was pure pain, and not the type of silent scream from an injury followed by crying, but a guttural groaning sound that only comes from the loss of true love.  She jumped from the bed into my arms, squeezed me so tight, and just sobbed uncontrollably.  Adrenaline was coursing through my body as I ran through the house carrying Incredi-daughter looking for Wondermom.  I was totally unable to do anything to fix this, and all I could do was to hold on to her and listen to her suffer.  The pain was unbearable.  Her loss, our family's loss, and I couldn't protect them.  It is my job to fix everything, and no amount of emotional duct tape could solve this problem.  Hours passed by, and tears flowed heavily as we wrapped our family member in a towel, put her in a box, and said our goodbyes.  The feeling of loss, such surprising and shocking loss, was thick in our home. 

Days later, and still smarting from the feeling that there was nothing I could do but be there, and it hit me.  There are times as a parent that being there is all we can do.  Us Superdads and Wondermoms think we can fix just about anything, insure happiness, and provide a perfect childhood, but we can't.  We can't cure death.  We can't prevent all suffering.  We can't stop the incredible pain that co-exists with amazing rewards of love.  What we can do, and must do, is be there when confronted with such loss.  I understand that this was only the first of many challenges we'll face as parents.  Whether its the first rejection by a crush or the loss of a loved one, where there is love, there will always be loss and pain.  Sometimes the healing power of a hug, lying side by side holding hands in silence, or just crying together is all you can offer.  It's not a quick fix, but the only way to heal the loss of love is share it ten-times over. 

I must say the Incredi-son was amazing.  He showered his little sister with love, understanding, and diverted her attention to happy memories of Fluffy.   It was incredibly mature.  I was so proud of the kid who is so tough and competitive on the field, but who can also be so emotionally nurturing.  He was there for his sister in a way I didn't think a 9-year old could be.  We must be doing something right so far with that one.

In the end, what I learned from this family tragedy is that being there, not just being present, but truly "being there" is about all you can do sometimes.  Being there is not fun and staying away would be far easier, but no one said being a super-hero was anything but the hardest thing we'll ever do.

[In many ways, this event happening on Memorial Day weekend had a purpose.  We talked a lot about the loss many families had protecting our freedom over breakfast.  Nothing could make us feel better, but Incredi-kids truly understand what Memorial Day means.  Thanks to all those who have sacrificed to keep us free.]

WONDER FREAKING MOM

We've talked about Superdad and Incredikids, but now it's Wondermom's turn. 

Thanks to the 1970's and 80's we have lost Ms. Cleaver forever.  No, we haven't really lost her, we've downsized her lazy-ass, and coordinated multiple job descriptions for efficiency and economy for the betterment of the family unit.  In other words, we gave her more work, less play, and she was rewarded by keeping her job and doing five others.  Wondermom's, like the modern employees, must do the work of many, but all for the same damn pay.  The unrealistic expectations come in the many roles for Wondermoms.  I'm sure I've missed some, so either comment and tell me what I missed or live with it.  Here are just a few:

Moneymaker:  I'm not talking about the moneymaker June Cleaver used to shake in that dress for Ward after a hard day with the Beav.  I'm talking about getting out there and bringing home the dough like Claire Huxtable. We can thank our parents for solving the nations 70's and 80's money problems by introducing the US to the two-income family (welcome to latch-keys, daycare, and Zoloft).  Today, Wondermoms do it just like Superdads, and that ain't easy.  Juggle job, doctor's appointments, getting Incredikids breakfast and off to school, and God forbid Incredikids gets sick on the day of the big presentation.  Oh yeah, and Incredikids will make you sicker than hell at least twice a year, but you'll slough your way off to work to save the "sick-days" for days when you're not really sick.  If Wondermom is lucky enough to stay home to take care of the kids, it's probably because she put up with Superdad's long road to making that possible, so reap that reward if you can moms (we'll just expect more out of you anyway with all that free time).

Household Technician:  I hate that damn Frontgate Family.  You know that catalog that comes out in the Spring with the pretty rich people on the cover looking perfect.  Who lives like that?  Everything is monogrammed, brand new, and perfectly decorated.  The catalog shows Skip, Buffy, their kids and the shaggy dog in front of their mansion or around their pool sipping mint juleps from plastic crystal.  Yeah, that whole thing is bullshit.  As soon as the camera left, the kids started kicking the crap out of each other, the dog dropped a deuce on the patio, Dad went into his office to "do a little work" sneaking a cigar like a 14-year old smoking one of granny's cigs in the garage, and Mom "ran to the store for a few things" but really stopped in for a few Mother's Little Helpers at the local pub.  No one really lives like that, and while it makes for a good crapper-backer mag, it's not reality and we don't need to try and live like that.

Real families live in their houses, make messes, and sometimes just try to keep the floor visible.  Wondermom has to follow her family of heroes around picking up shoes, clothes, and toys (Superdad too, that lazy slob).  As fast as she picks up, another mess is made, but she'll make sure the house is ready in case house guests happen to show up out of the blue (even then she'll apologize for some reason for the mess).  Superdads, yeah, we help "maintain the house" by putting on the tool-belt here and there and working on "projects." In reality we hide out in a room with the game on super-low hammering here and there to keep the illusion going.  Yard work takes hours, but we make it seem that way to make up for our lack of overall effort  I guarantee you that damn mower takes a long time to start doesn't it?  Your Superdad might just have to drink two to four ice-cold beers from the garage fridge to properly pre-hydrate before getting down to work on such a hot day...(nothing like bud-light and power tools).  Wondermom holds the house together, and for that we salute you.  The thing is it's okay for the house to look lived in, I'm not talking frat-house filth, but who needs freaking pillows on the couch you can't lay on?  What we really want is a little more time with you, and if it means the dishes wait until tomorrow, let em' be baby!

Hells Kitchen:  I stayed home sick last fall and watched afternoon television for the first time in a long time.  Who the hell are these people, and what freaking world do they live in?  They were making this amazing dinner from scratch with presentation like a four-start restaurant.  Organic, hell yeah, and the Wondermom had hit the Farmer's Market to handpick the bok choy or some other exotic veggie I've never heard of.  So between the house, childcare, Superdad care, and Wondermom keeping her moneymaker tight, she's expected to run a healthy, organic, low-fat, yet amazingly tasty kitchen.  The truth is Wondermom is doing great if she gets everyone fed, and it's unrealistic to put that kind of burden on her.  Superdads will each just about anything as long as it tastes decent and the kids will eat it without a fight.  So take a night or two off each week, have dad make "breakfast for dinner"  one night and make sure to have left-overs at least one day during the week.  We'll live.  If you like to cook, let it rock, and thanks to my family's Wondermom and her expertise in with the "eat clean" menu, we have our chef who keeps the Supergut in check. It's no easy task to have dinner ready at night, but believe me it feels awesome to walk into a hot dinner after a long day to make us feel like the king of the castle...even if its only once and a while.

Cougar-Time:  In addition to everything else, Wondermoms are getting crazy about fitness and looks.  I have the benefit of being married to a hardcore triathlete, and yes, that's very good for me.  However, I think it total crap that the media through women's magazines and TV, have portrayed Wondermoms as bony-thin models 12 weeks post-baby who dress like they're going to the Kentucky Derby everyday. First of all, models don't look like that without makeup and air-brushes, so F the media for portraying moms like that.  Second, those aren't real moms, they're women who have the benefit of trainers, dieticians, and their inherent ability to puke on demand like 98 pound jockeys.  Those bitches don't take care of anything, get divorced more than they change the oil in the Range Rover, and have the IQs of a well-developed meth addict.   Sure, workout, take care of yourself, stay healthy, and while you're at it make sure Superdad keeps that gut down to a minimum too, but don't freak out that you can't fit in your wedding dress 20 years later.  I'm sure  Superdad's waist is a little more seasoned than it was when you got hitched, and that's just what happens when we get older.  So quit watching Real Housewives of Wherever, and recognize that we love it that you look hot in sweats and one of our tee-shirts while playing catch in the front yard with Incredikid...that's smoking hot for sure. 

The Calling.  Take it from one Superdad, what we love most is to look at the Incredikids and how much they love you moms.  In the end, we're all going to look like the California Raisins watching Robot Vanna turn the letters on "the Wheel" as we tell Incredikids on speakerphone how to raise their kids.  You'll tell Superdad to turn up his hearing aid, and help him get up from the couch.  We'll share meals that wouldn't have fed one of us 25 years earlier, and our kids will tell us the waistline doesn't start just below your nipples so pull down the damn pants.  I truly hope we all live long enough for those days because this journey is the hardest, most rewarding trip we can ever take, and while it seems tough at times juggling all this other crap, it's damn fine when it all comes together.

Sometimes we just have to remember to enjoy being.  It's okay to pull the hair into a pony, wear the sweats, and forgo the makeup.  Don't worry, we get it.  There are going to be crazy days that require workouts at dawn, multiple stops at the gas station, and even the dreaded Micky-D's dinner concession.  The bottom line is it's great to bring home some cash, look great, cook like Rachel Ray, and keep a beautiful clean home, but in the end it won't matter much if all that comes at the cost of your relationships with the family.  Know that while Superdads don't say it enough, probably because we're too busy with our Fantasy Draft research, playing Words with Friends, or yelling at our favorite team for blowing it in the Stanley Cup Playoffs, we love and appreciate what you do for us. Sure, us Superdads may change a few diapers, go on a few field-trips, and read bedtime stories, but we aren't you and will never be...we get it.  So with Mom's Day soon approaching, please accept this sincere thank you from Superdads everywhere.  

Oh, and thank God you don't have an invisible jet...the Cheerios, apple cores, juice box stains, and papers jammed in the console would look like shit.