Tonight I took Colt, who is seven, to his baseball tryouts. In my rush to get out the door, I forgot to grab his glove. When we got to the field Colt realized he was the only one not to have his own glove.
“I don’t have my glove mama,” he said.
“No worries sweetie, just line up with your age group and I will run home and get it,” I responded.
As with all tryouts it was chaotic and to make matters worse, there were several age groups and he was the youngest.
“I am feeling really scared,” he said with quivering lips. I could see the panicked tears welling up in his eyes.
As I stood there thinking how much I sucked as a parent and wondering how could I have forgotten his damn glove when I had preached and screamed at my now teens for years to not forget their equipment, a memory came flooding back of a time when eight years ago Keenan had forgotten his glove for the 6,375 time.
Then the most perfect plan formed. I called Keenan and had him drive the glove over. After all, he owed me.
Below is the memory that came flooding back…
When Keenan was nine and playing baseball, he had practice twice a week and one or two games. At least two times a week he would forget his glove. Not an enormous problem for a right handed player, they just glove share with the rest of their right handed friends. However, Keenan is one of those rare lefty kids and when he leaves his glove at home, there is no sharing.
Twice a week I would get a call five minutes after I dropped him off and I would schlep my butt back over to the field, glove in hand and graciously though I wanted yell, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”, walk it over to Keenan on the field. About halfway through the season, after asking him twice on the drive to practice if he had the glove in his bag and him telling me yes both times, I got the call.
“Um mom, I forgot my glove.” Steam began coming out of my ears and visions of me super gluing that damn thing to his hand were playing in my mind.
“Where is it,” I asked through gritted teeth. “I don’t know,” was his insightful response.
I looked in his room, the garage, under his bed, in the refrigerator, blah, blah, blah. I finally found it in the bathroom and rushed out the door infuriated that I was dealing with this situation A-FREAKING-GAIN.
By the time I got to the field, I was beyond reason. Instead of calmly parking my car and delivering the glove as I had done 300 other times that season, I tried a different tactic. As I approached the field, I slowed my car to about 20 miles per hour, rolled down the passenger side window, with my hair blowing in the wind causing a Medusa effect, my face distorted with a joker like grin, my eyes as big as saucers, I laid on the horn. The entire team stopped in their various baseball positions and looked to see my crazy. And then? I wound up and chucked that glove 2o feet out the window onto the field.
As I drove off , I looked into my rear view mirror to see my mortified son jogging over to the other side of the field, all his friends and coaches staring at him, to retrieve his glove.
While I am not proud of my tactics (well, I sort of am), they were effective. Keenan never forgot his glove again.