We are enjoying the baseball. I should say that, for the most part, we tune in to sports on television when there is a big contest. Wimbledon. The NBA Finals. The World Series. We were prepared for the Yankees to win last night, mostly because Hideki Matsui hit a home run for my daughter, on her 4th birthday, eight years ago. We were home in New York for the summer and Grandma got tickets. It was hat day, too. Wow. Hats and a home run. We just figured it was all in the bag.
School nights what they are, we watched whatever was on during the dinner hour, carrying our plates to the coffee table, leaning up against the couch. Sweaty from soccer practice and tennis. Some vocab homework left to do, maybe a little math. The kids eat slowly at the coffee table. I sort of let them.
Since the series started, they know average pitch speeds, they know about the different grips on the ball. They think the spitting is disgusting. They do not spit in soccer or tennis. Imagine. They think the runners are slow to get to first. Until they realize how fast the ball is going. Sports are great, for girls, especially. I love when my nearly 14 year old has practice on Friday nights or early Saturday games. And when her sister wants to hit extra, to practice what she’s learned. Basketball try-outs begin next week. Need to shoot around, go to the park over the weekend. Get ready to push a few folks around on the court. In the spring, track. Zip zip. We have nine hundred uniforms in the closet. I have been saving them since kindergarten, in bags. So many bags. I will sew duvets for college.
Meantime, Matsui’s on the bench. That’s okay. There is Damon, who grins as if he knows something and Swisher, who grins as if he’s done something. And Jeter, who grins like it just isn’t so.
We wanted them to win last night, to blow away the red guys on their home turf. But, actually, with the loss, we win. We get to watch again. In our sweaty shirts and sneaks.
Pamela Gwyn Kripke 