I swore it wouldn't happen. I have read the magazine articles about parents who get overly involved in their childrens' sporting events. Some shout profanity, some get into physical altercations, some are even banned from the field.
And until this year, I was a little smug. I watched my kids' games with enthusiasm, but never crossed the line to "Parent-Zilla" mode. Then my son got good at baseball.
I have two kids-one who is a decent outfielder, who makes good catches and occasionally hits the ball. My other son, though, is very good at baseball. He can pitch, catch, play any of the infield positions, and bat with strength consistently. It has been so much fun watching him this year that he sucked me in.
Yesterday's game was the clincher. It was a playoff game for our city league. Nick pitched the first five innings, and held the runs to three. A relief pitcher came in, and we went down by four runs. The next at-bat, the boys evened up the score. By the final at-bat, the opposing pitcher gave up a run, and walked two kids onto base. The final inning, the bases were loaded, and all we needed to win was one run. The little boy who was our final batter is not known for being a powerhouse. I don't think he's gotten a hit all year. With a full count, the pitcher lost control of the ball, hitting him, and walking in our final run. Never have I been so happy to have a kid hit by a ball.
The place went wild! Kids were cheering, crying, jumping all around. I was ringing my cow bell as hard as I could, and my pulse was racing. The adrenaline and norepinephrine were pulsing through my body.
And that's my story. I am now a fan-atic. I can't handle much more of this.
I still feel a little catecholemine-depleted today.
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