Take Me Out to the Ballgame...But Maybe Not Every Single Night, Okay?

Because it's late spring and either a Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or Saturday, one of your offspring has a Little League game. You like baseball. If there were a torture chamber where you were forced to watch six consecutive hours of any sport, you'd pick baseball. You just don't necessarily like it 599 nights in a row when you have to simultaneously balance it with other after school activities, homework and dinner.

You're not surprised when your slugger summons you to his room while attempting to get into uniform. This is because whatever company designs baseball uniform belts has apparently never checked in with the company who designs the pants. Trying to feed the belt through the belt loops is the equivalent of trying to push a freight train through a row of shower curtain rings still attached to the rod.  The belt gets caught on every single loop and must be painstakingly jiggled and wiggled at odd angles to move one inch forward. You often wonder if Derek Jeter's mom started out like this.

Meanwhile, your youngest announces she really doesn't feel like going to another ballgame. This is understandable, as she has been dragged to more than she can count, and she can count all the way to 100. Help her fill a tote with assorted Barbies, coloring books, stickers and puzzles so she has something to do. Pack a cooler with drinks (because you refuse to pay $2.00 for bottled water at the concession stand when you can buy a 24 pack for $3.99 at the supermarket). 

Unfortunately, there's only one snack pack of goldfish crackers left and all remaining siblings want to bring it. They're suddenly very tired of the fun-shaped pretzel packs they begged you to buy a few days ago. Arguing over this almost muffles out the complaining coming from your ballplayer who's struggling to get into his cleats. The belt design people must be pals with the cleat design people. It's the only explanation for why each lace must be loosened one-by-one at every single grommet hole in order for your child to be able to squeeze his foot inside.  

He finally appears in the doorway ready to go. Point out he forgot his cap. And glove. And gear bag.

Because this is a travel game, you're not familiar with the ballpark location. As you drive, silently hope it's an updated complex with modern bleachers and a working scoreboard, not a dilapidated one sitting in an untended swamp hole that screams Ticks, Come Infect My Kids.

While your son joins his team on the field, the rest of you settle onto the rattling, lopsided bleachers. Within seven minutes, your daughter has already rummaged through every item in the tote bag and deemed them all too boring. She wants to play with your phone instead. She asks when the game is going to be over. Soon, you say, just as the first pitch is thrown. Wonder if Jeter's mom told such fibs to his little sister.

You can't help but notice the loud-mouth moms in the opposing team's stands. They're compelled to yell comments after every single pitch. They also shout and whoop excessively every time one of your team's players fails, even if he's already in tears. You wish you could hold up a sign reminding them of the players' young ages and how it's supposed to be about having fun. Think of some less family-friendly signs as well.

Your daughter asks when Daddy will be there. After work, you say. She asks if she can have something from the concession stand. Present the goldfish she fought so hard for, but apparently no longer wants. Her brother offers to eat them, snatching the package from her hands. She tries to yank it back. He pulls harder and soon there are tiny orange fish swimming in the dirt underneath the bleachers. You can almost hear the ants high-fiving each other.

Relent and take the kids to the concession stand. Your daughter stomps the whole way insisting now she doesn't WANT anything from there because she really, really wanted her goldfish and how she has the worst brother EVER. Buy her a big pretzel, rationalizing she may at least be temporarily occupied flaking the salt crystals off one by one.

When you return, one of the other parents reports your son just got a nice hit....because it's always during your trip to the concession stand that your son seems to bat. Feel terrible. Tell his siblings to stop squabbling because you all came here to watch their brother, and that's exactly what you're going to do from this point forward. 

Except now your younger son has to use the bathroom. The whole restroom area looks remote enough to conceal lurking child molesters, but he's too old to go into the Ladies' Room with you. Ask if he can wait until his dad arrives. Of course, he can't. When you return, learn your ballplayer made an amazing catch in your absence.

Besides the disgusting restrooms, this complex features another aspect you wish to avoid: the playgym. It's the kind with lots of open spaces between bars at the top where you're convinced anyone under the age of six could slip through. It requires constant supervision. You also can't see the game from said playgym, but by the end of the third inning, there you are.

A teammate's little brother now joins your kids. He swings from the bars multiple times and takes three trips down the slide before he mentions how he'd seen your baseball player get hurt. Quickly corral your kids back to the game. As you walk past the other team's bleachers, the loud-mouth moms are muttering about what kind of mother doesn't watch her own kid's game and isn't there for him when he gets hurt.

Your son is fortunately fine sitting in the dugout with an ice pack the coach says was purely a precautionary measure. As you examine your son's minor swelling, try to ignore the new infield dirt stains on the pants. You just know that shade of orange is going to be impossible to remove.

Your husband arrives in time for the last inning. Finally, some help with the younger kids so you can watch. Too bad your son remains on the bench. But that's okay, tomorrow night you'll get to do this all over again.

Wonder if Jeter's mom ever prayed for rain.

Actual Length of Baseball Game:  2 1/2 hours
Length Including Getting Ready & Traveling to and from Game:  4 hours
Real Feel:  5 1/2 hours
Time Spent Watching Son Play:  30 minutes total, comprised of sporadic 3 minute intervals only
Chance Your Kid Is the Next Derek Jeter:  0.0000000000001

TALK TO ME:  What's your favorite (or least favorite) part of Little League games? Tips for removing field stains from pants are welcomed & encouraged!