NBA Softball 2013

I'm sitting at Bongo Java, after putting the boys (and Jude) to bed, having a cup of coffee and unwinding after a disappointing finish for my team in the 2013 NBA softball tournament.  Our team  won the tournament in 2007, 2009 and 2011, but this year, it wasn't to be.  Actually, we had our worst tournament showing in several years, losing our second game today and finishing 4th overall.

My old law firm - Manier, Herod - rallied from a 13-1 deficit to beat us.  Although that will leave a mark, I'm glad it was Manier that beat us.  Many, many years ago, Benton, Richard and I won a 2 or 3 tournament championships while we were working there.  It means a lot to me to see their firm team - "Not Manier" - do well.  All good guys (and girls) that love playing in the softball league.  

I love to win, for sure.  At this stage of my life, though, it's as much about playing softball with my friends, hanging out together after the games (regular season and tournament) and, most of all, spending time with J.P. and Joe at East Park.  It means so much to me to have them at the games, watching their old man do something he's good at, even if it is just pitching a softball and hitting a little bit, too.

J.P. is at the perfect age to enjoy my softball games.  He sits in the dugout, talks to everyone and follows the games pretty intently.  Today, he gave me five (or two, actually) before I hit each time for good luck.  And it worked (except when I ended out tournament run by popping out weekly to the first baseman).  After the games, I pitch to J.P. and as he gets a hit, he runs the bases.  That's pretty awesome.  Today, while we were batting, I threw ball to him outside the dugout, so he could practice catching.  It really doesn't get any better than that for me.

After our last game, we sat on camping chairs just past the outfield and watched a couple more games.  As we drank a few beers, we swapped old softball stories, ragged on each other and laughed a lot.  The highlight of the day, for me anyway, was when our coach, Chris Vlahos, gave one of our two all-tournament trophies to J.P.  Understandably, J.P. was beyond excited.

 

It's hard to put into words how much the NBA softball league has meant to me over the years.  I'm pretty sure this is my 23rd or 24th year in the league, which is astonishing.  One thing it means is that I'm old, which is another post for another time.  Richard Smith, Benton Patton and I have played together for everyone of those seasons, Richard in left field and Benton at shortstop.  For almost as long, I've also played with Will Chapman, Chris Vlahos, John Rolfe and Tim Harvey.  Aside from softball, we've shared good times together and terrible, tragic times.  Through it all, softball has been there and our team has been there.

I don't know how much longer we have to play together.  Two of our guys are over 50, a couple more are close to 50 and we're not getting any younger.  I want to keep playing, though, for a few more years, so my boys can come to East Park to watch the games and hit, throw and run the bases afterwards.  It's not a lot to ask, but it's everything to me.

  

Love Hurts

Love hurts.  Especially when it comes to raising a child.

Saturday morning, Jude, J.P., Joe and I went to the Frist (art museum) and met one of J.P.'s classmates and his parents.  There was a pretty cool classic car exhibit and, more importantly, on the 3rd floor there's an awesome area for children to play - areas to draw, things to look at and a table with plastic, magnetized blocks to build with.  J.P. and his friend had a great time building "jails" (I'm not sure how that happened, but it did).

Anyway, at one point, the boys wondered off to look at something and another boy knocked down the buildings they had built.  J.P. and his friend immediately started crying, while I tried to explain that they needed to share the blocks, it was time to let other children play with them, etc.  As I walked J.P. away from the table and tried to reason with him, he decided to focus his anger on me.  He looked at me and said, "I wish I only had a mommy and no daddy, like Will" (a classmate of his).  To my shock and dismay, he repeated himself.

I was speechless.  Actually, I was devastated.

If anyone had told me when I held my oldest son in my arms for the first time, 5 1/2 years ago, that at some point early in his life (or at any point in his life) he would look at me and tell me he wished  he only had a mommy (or a mother), I would have laughed it off.  And yet, it happened.  Jude was mortified when he said it and immediately told him to apologize, which he did, half-heartedly at first.  As he realized how upset I was, he apologized again.

We left the Frist and I drove home with Joe, while Jude and J.P. waited on "the green bus" (that's another story, but suffice to say J.P. likes public transportation).  J.P. called me on my cell phone and apologized again.  To me, it felt contrived, but I'm not sure it was going to feel otherwise, given that he's 5 1/2 years old and his mother, I know, encouraged him to call me.

I was down, really down, for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  The common sense part of my brain told me a lot of things:  He didn't meant it.  He doesn't know any better.  He's only 5 1/2.  He's trying to become independent.  He's testing my limits.  And on and on.

My heart hurt and told me something else entirely:  I'm a terrible father, or else J.P. wouldn't say something so horrific.  He doesn't love me like he should.  I don't spend enough time with him.  He doesn't respect me.  In 10 years, I won't be able to control him.  And on an on.

To say I was conflicted is an understatement.  To say J.P. laid waste to my heart is not.  Tough, tough day.

Today, we picked where things left off and followed our normal Sunday routine.  J.P. and I went to Bongo Java, then to Rose Park, where we practiced baseball in the stifling morning heat.  Then, we went to Krispy Kreme to pick up donuts for church.  After church, we came home, played for a bit, then I took Joe for a walk after lunch so he could nap in the stroller.

Tonight, as we were finishing up dinner, I started fooling around with J.P.  For no good reason whatsoever, I decided it would be funny to tell him I had a gift for him - a Panera card and a Paneral keychain card - and throw them on the dining room table.  He laughed uproariously the first time a threw the Panera cards on the table and off we went.  Immediately, we began playing a game where he would tell me he had Panera cards for me, then throw them on the table, laughing hysterically.

It was one of those spontaneous, organic moments that happens all on its own.

J.P. and I laughed.  Jude shook her head at us and laughed.  Joe, in his high chair, laughed (with no idea why he was laughing).

I called Jude on her cell phone.  J.P. answered.  I said I was calling from Panera and and two cards for him, then I ran in the room and threw them on the dining room table.  J.P. laughed so hard he was almost crying.  Then  he called me on my cell phone and did the same thing.  And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

Life with children is a roller coaster, no doubt about it.  Up, up, up, then down, then up, up, up again.

Belmont School

As I write this, I'm sitting on the front porch, drinking a glass of wine after a late night 3 mile run in the neighborhood, listening to the sprinkler water the grass in our front yard.  And, I'm listening to R.E.M. - Murmur on Spotify.  It's a kind of a nice summer evening.

Tonight, after dinner, J.P. and I went to Belmont U to hang out for a bit.  As has been the case lately, I had to talk him into going.  He initially said he wanted to play basketball in his room upstairs instead.  Ultimately, he relented and we drove down to Belmont Blvd., got a cup of coffee at Bongo Java, stopped in Athlete's House to look around and walked over to Belmont U and into the Student Center.  It was deserted for the most part, as it usually is in late June/early July.  No basketball camps and not many kids around for summer school. 

In the end, we had a great time hanging out together for a little while.  I need that time with him and he needs that time with me, I think.  I rarely get home from work before 6 p.m., so we don't get a lot of one on one time together before dinner and bedtime.  Because Jude (or Carley) usually picks him up from school or camp (in summer) at Chldren's House at 3:15 p.m., she has some time along with him on a regular basis.  Consequently, I treasure every minute alone with J.P. I can get.

It was nice, just walking around the student center, quietly talking to each other.  I've mentioned this before, but it's almost as if I see ghosts when I walk around Belmont's campus.  The memories - mostly of time I've spent there with J.P. - are everywhere.  Bushels of memories, like snapshots in a mental photo album. 

Tonight, we sat down in some chairs on the second floor and looked out onto Belmont Boulevard.  I asked him to come sit with me.  After a little coaxing on my part, he climbed up in my lap.  I told him I loved him and that for the rest of my life, I would always treasure the memories of the time we've spent together at Belmont over the last 5 years.  I think he appreciated the moment on some level, because he began to recount some of his favorite memories.  I did the same as we sat there together.

In a "Puff the Magic Dragon" kind of way, it's harder and harder to convince him to go to "Belmont School" (as he used to call Belmont U) with me to hang out and walk around.  I get that he's getting older and it's natural that he wants to do different things with me - play basketball, practice baseball, etc., which is cool.  I would be lying, though, if I said I didn't miss the days when he and I went to Belmont U. almost every night after dinner.  Simple times.  Innocent times, playing make believe games in the student center or playing soccer at dusk on the soccer filed (which is no longer there, by the way).

My boy, my oldest son is growing up before my very eyes.  It's more challenging to entertain him, to stimulate him, to hold his attention which, again, I know is normal.  Belmont School doesn't do it for him so much anymore, which makes me nostalgic and a little sad.  He's getting older, I am getting older and life is moving on, maybe a little too quickly for me.

Being a parent.  Wow.  It's wonderful.  It's hard, sometimes.  And it tugs at your hearstrings, or at least at mine, which is a blessing and a curse that comes form having such a nostalgic nature, I suppose.  J.P. is about the age I was when my father died and I want him to remember the times we've shared together, at Belmont School and elsewhere. 

That gets to the heart of it, I think.  I want him to know how much fun I had with him, how much I loved him and how proud I was of him, every single day of his life (and of my life when he was in it).  He told me tonight, as we walked back to my truck, that he loved me even when I was a little boy, his age.

And I almost cried.