This is not a diatribe about keeping score in life, which I don’t believe in. That’s a post for another day.
This is about me keeping score at a softball game. First, some background.
I’m not exactly what one would call athletic. I played soccer when I was little, ran some track in middle school and early high school, and marched in marching band and did color guard – so I wasn’t totally uncoordinated. Suffice it to say I’d rather have my nose in a book or my hands on an instrument than be beaten up by sports equipment. (Or wap someone in the mouth with my flag, which I did several times. Sorry, trombone players.)
I played on the church softball team in high school. I liked it, up until one game where I was pitching and turned around after the person hit the ball, thinking it was going to go over my head. Alas, the ball hit me square in the butt and I couldn’t sit for weeks. I’ve been pretty leery of baseballs and softballs since then, and honestly, I throw like a girl. Batting makes me laugh, just the thought of doing it, to the point of snickering out loud as I type this.
Imagine my surprise when my father-in-law said that Brookie had some potential for throwing a ball, and we should consider getting her signed up for a sport. I wrote to the township ball league, not thinking we’d be able to because we were way past the sign up date. Surprisingly, we caught the guy at the last day before they ordered uniforms, and she was accepted onto the team. And I volunteered to be team mom.
Now, this may seem like no big deal. Provide a snack schedule. No problem. I can make a spreadsheet no problem. Done. Plus, I like being helpful. It’s actually a chronic problem I’m trying to address, because I try to be helpful at the risk of my own happiness and welfare, but I still ask the coach every time I see him if I can help with anything or whatnot.
Saturday that bit me in the ass.
Coach asked if I could keep score. I’m of the mind that you say yes and then figure it out. I figured I had Chris with me (who played ball all the way through school and still loves everything about the sport), so how hard could it be?
Honestly, the score-keeping itself wasn’t bad. I’m a fairly clever girl, so figuring out how to mark it wasn’t bad. What WAS bad was the other parents. The parents who have ‘star’ players on the team, coming to look over my shoulder and make comments about how I’m doing (or not doing) it wrong or right. By the time the first inning was over, I was a mess.
Chris kept telling me to ignore them, but I don’t know if it’s a faulty gene in me or if it’s a female thing or what. I was almost in tears. One lady made a comment at one point about how she couldn’t believe *I* was keeping score because I obviously didn’t know what I was doing. Nothing really connected until Brookie was up to bat, and the lady said, Oh, no. Not her.
I suddenly grew a spine.
It helped that Brookie hit a double and ran like the wind after she said that. I refrained from turning around and sticking my tongue out, but barely. (See the reference to not keeping score at the top of the page.)
I did fine keeping score. I’ll do fine if I have to do it again at the game tonight. I knew the score, I knew what was going on in the game, and I put all the correct marks down on the page. Plus, I paid attention to everything that was going on and watched my kid play a great game of ball.
I still wish there was an app for that, but I’ll live with the old paper and pencil way of doing things, especially if I can invest in my kid’s childhood in this way. Plus, I won’t sit there and yell at her after every move she makes. I figure that’s a good trade off. And I learned something new.
It’s all good. (And I won’t say neener neener, either.)
It’s all good.