Take Me Out to the Short Game

Ventured back out to the unfortunately named Pfphitzger's Stadium to join all of our friends brave enough to withstand the stands, 98 degrees in the shade, of which there was not much. After last week's thunderstorms, I'd re-invited six or seven friends and their families; Ainsley another half-dozen.

Yes, well.

Seems my New Mexican and her African upbringings have made us hardier folks.

Or everyone else just didn't feel like paying $2.50 for an airline-snack-sized bag of Cracker Jacks.

But still! It wasn't that bad when some clouds parked themselves in front of the blazing sun, Ryan had fun running up down the bleachers (why do little boys have to get up on the highest step?), dancing to the batter intro music on the loudspeakers, joining the crowd in whatever they were applauding, and asking what the hell the big blue thing was.

This is not my child.

However, just as I gathered the clan at the end of the top of the 7th inning for a rousing rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game", the fans started cheering, the billboard lit up "We WON!" and announcer stated that the second game of the double-header would start in thirty minutes.

What?

I knew about the double header, knew that fireworks wouldn't happen until after the 2nd game, knew we we'd be long-gone and (har!) asleep by then. But I did not know that meant the first game was going to emulate a tiny-tot T-ball match and quit before my son gets to sing the 'baseball song'. I stomped down the ramp, readying my complaint that I'd paid a steep price ($0) so my son could enjoy a complete baseball game, never mind that the admission fee was good for two games, but still...

Then they announced that they were going to go ahead and do a between-game stretch and cranked up the ol' organ, so I had to run back into the bleachers to be a part of the throng joining in.

Ryan didn't sing a word.

But he had a great grin on his face, as if to say, "Hey. Lookit all these people who know my song."

As it was, the fireworks started early, in the form of yet another thunderstorm (our 112th this Spring). Amazingly, the hour-long meteorological version of "Stomp" didn't wake up our daughter, plum exhausted from the day's excitement.

I've now purchased us season tickets.

But pretty much given up on trying to get out of Ryan's room before he's asleep, as he turns into a puddle of scrunched-faced tears and high-pitched 'no's, even when the sky's not exploding outside his window. He wants a new diaper. He wants a song. He wants a hug. He wants mommy. He wants to watch TV (!). He wants to go downstairs. He wants up. But mostly, he just wants me to lay on floor. I can't explain to him that I have other things to do, that my back hurts, that I have to study, that his toy box is on fire downstairs, nothing. My only chance at escape the other night was when he said, "Please go away....and get Mommy."

Last night I resorted to bringing my Air War College book and reading it by the night light until he fell asleep past ten.

So I may pass my test on Tuesday, but any future eye test is seriously in doubt.