Aylmer

It’s a Saturday in May. I could be home, curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead I’m sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park. An icy wind creeps through my winter jacket. I blow on my hands wishing I’d brought my woollen mittens. “Mrs. Bodmer?” It’s my son’s coach. “I thought you’d like to know. We’re going to start your son today in right field. He’s worked hard this year. We think he deserves the opportunity.” “ Thanks,” I say feeling proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how bad he wants to start. I’m glad his hard work is being rewarded. Suddenly I’m nervous for him. I go to the concession stand and buy hot chocolate. Back in my seat I hold it between my hands blowing the steam into my face for warmth. The team, in their white and blue pinstripe uniforms, struts on the field. They all look alike. I search for my son’s number. It isn’t there. Instead, Eddie takes right field. I look again unbelieving. Yes, it’s Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team. How can that be? I glance at the coach, but he’s absorbed in the game. I want to run over and ask what’s going on, but I know my son wouldn’t like that. Over the last eight years I’ve learned the proper etiquette for moms, and talking to the coach during a game is definitely not acceptable. My son grips the chain link fence, which protects the bench from stray balls, and yells encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his nonverbals, but I know he has learned, like most men, to hide his feelings from the world. My heart breaks. So much hard work, so much disappointment. I don’t understand what drives young boys to put themselves through this. “Atta boy, Eddie,” yells someone nearby. It’s Eddie’s father. I can see him smiling, proud his son is starting. I shake my head because I’ve seen this man walk out of games when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. But for now, he’s proud. His son is starting. My son is on the bench. By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the cold, and my feet are numb, but I don’t care. My son has been called into the game and he’s about to come up to bat. I glance at the dugout. He stands, sorts through the batting helmets and chooses one. Please I pray, let him get a hit. He picks a bat and struts to the batter’s box. I grip the metal seat as he takes a couple of practice swings, adjusts his batting glove and steps up to the plate. The pitcher looks like and adult, I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate. Strike one. “Nice swing” I yell. The next pitch is a ball. “Good eye!, Good eye!” Strike two The pitcher winds up to throw. I hold my breath. Strike three. My son’s head hangs and he walks back to the dugout. I look away knowing there’s nothing I can do. For eight years I’ve been sitting here. I’ve drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten my share of green hot-dogs and salty popcorn. I’ve suffered from the cold and the heat, eaten dust, and sat in rain. Some people wonder why a sane person would go through this. It’s not because I want to fulfill my dreams of excelling at sports through my children. And I also don’t do this because of the emotional highs. Oh yes, there are a few. I’ve seen one or the other of my sons score the winning goal in soccer and hit home runs in baseball and spark a come from behind in basketball. But mostly I’ve seen heartache. I’ve waited at home with them for a phone call telling them they’d made the team. Phone calls that never came. I’ve seen them sit on the bench game after game and get up to bat only to strike out. I’ve sat in emergency rooms, as their broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. I’ve watched coaches yell at them. I’ve sat here year after year observing it all and wondering why. The game is over. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddie’s dad is slapping him on the back with a big grin on his face. My son wants money for a hamburger. While I wait, the coach approaches me. I can’t bring myself to look at him. “Mrs. Bodmer, I wanted you to know that’s a fine young man you have there.” “Why?” I ask, waiting for him to explain why he broke my son’s heart. “When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him.” I turn to watch my son stuffing a burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?

Minor Mosquito AA - Southwest London Champions Mosquito AA - St. Thomas Champions Mosquito A - Oakridge Champions PeeWee A - E.B.B.A. Champions Minor Bantam AA - E.B.B.A. Finalists Bantam A - Southwest London Finalists Minor Midget AAA - Badgers Finalists Midget AAA - Badgers Champions Midget AA - Oakridge Champions Junior C - St. Thomas Champions

Minor Mosquito AA - Southwest London Champions Mosquito AA - St. Thomas Champions Mosquito A - Oakridge Champions PeeWee A - E.B.B.A. Champions Minor Bantam AA - E.B.B.A. Finalists Bantam A - Southwest London Finalists Minor Midget AAA - Badgers Finalists Midget AAA - Badgers Champions Midget AA - Oakridge Champions Junior C - St. Thomas Champions

Minor Mosquito AA - Southwest London Champions Mosquito AA - St. Thomas Champions Mosquito A - Oakridge Champions PeeWee A - E.B.B.A. Champions Minor Bantam AA - E.B.B.A. Finalists Bantam A - Southwest London Finalists Minor Midget AAA - Badgers Finalists Midget AAA - Badgers Champions Midget AA - Oakridge Champions Junior C - St. Thomas Champions

One-liners from Yogi Berra and Casey Stengel . . .
Yogi-isms

"Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical."

"It's deja vu all over again."

"If you come to a fork in the road, take it."

"If the people don't want to come out to the park, nobody's going to stop them."

"I didn't really say everything I said."

On being asked his cap size at the beginning of spring training: "I don't know, I'm not in shape."

On being told by the wife of New York Mayor John V. Lindsay that he looked cool despite the heat: "You don't look so hot, either."

On Yogi Berra Appreciation Day in St. Louis in 1947: "I want to thank you for making this day necessary."

On the acquisition of fleet Ricky Henderson: "He can run anytime he wants. I'm giving him the red light."

After accepting an invitation to dine at the White House this week: "I thought they said steak dinner, but then I found it was a state dinner."

The Wisdom of Casey Stengel

"All right, everybody line up alphabetically according to your height."

"I made up my mind, but I made it up both ways."

"Good pitching will always stop good hitting, and vice versa."

"The secret of managing is to keep the guys who hate you away from the guys who are undecided."