Confessions of a New Baseball Mom...No, Don't Call Me That

Saturday was D-man's first game at GT Bray, and I wasn't exactly prepared for a few things. But I'm told that eventually, it will become part of the routine and I'll become just as complacent as the rest of them about...

• Being a baseball mom? Don't ever call me that or you're going down.
  I have a son who plays baseball and I support him and the team. You may think it's bizarre that I resent being referred to as "a [fill in the blank with any sport] mom." I don't quite understand it myself. Does this have anything to do with Sarah Palin? I don't know. But I don't like it.
  
• The fact that sometimes, every kid on the opposing team has a good 30 pounds and 2 feet in excess of our boys.
  With each pitcher/batter face off, I felt like we were witnessing Andre the Giant take on Paul from the Wonder Years. I was scared.
  
• Holy crap. There's a kid on our team with facial hair.
  (Yeah, he's the only one who could disguise himself as a player on the other team and get away with it). It must not be too much longer until "things" start happening here at our house.
  
• There is a click of loud and foul-mouthed women who congregate next to the bleachers yelling at one another in thick Brooklyn accents.
  Don't look at them too long, or you'll start to wonder if they'll be waiting for you in the parking lot.
  
• And finally, toting along some reading material might not be a bad idea (although if it's not a National Inquirer, the loud and foul-mouthed women will have one more reason to hate you).
  We endured a 45 minute inning, which is apparently not unusual.

If I could only hear some of the conversations emanating from said spectator-parents, I would have an abundance of free and potentially juicy Gropius material. Tuesday evening, I go on alert with a special listening device. Until then, have a good week, peeps.