Slavering Or Mouthwatering?

Every day I come home and this is what I see:
















The kids are fond of her. But they're not fussy. They'd love a dung beetle. Hell, they love me, in their own peculiar way.

She's a horse, though. Ninety pounds of submissive pound mutt.

My question: Pet or Food?

Pet...........................................................Food

1. Likes meat...........................................................Is made of meat
2. Part of the family................................................Bigger part of the family than me
3. Loves the kids.....................................................The kids love food
4. The kids love her................................................Who cares?
5. Protects my house..............................................Does not protect my budget
6. Lies on my feet....................................................Craps in my yard
7. This one time, killed a rabbit...................,.........This one time, killed a rabbit
8. My family would kill me if I ate her.................My family would kill me if I ate her
9. Is a lab..................................................................Could be sold to a lab
10. Priceless.............................................................Worthless

Decisions, decisions.

It's A Beautiful Day For A Ballgame! Let's Play Two!

Finally, Opening Day. A perfect morning, a soft breeze, T-shirt weather at last. The kids wearing their new uniforms for the first time, still clean, not yet ripped and sorry-looking.

To celebrate, the volunteers put in a little extra effort. The players got announced one-by-one, running out and taking a spot along the baselines as their names and positions were read off over the PA system. As the national anthem played, they held their caps over their hearts, excited and scared to be the center of attention.

Then, game time. Our guys started a little slow, but so did the other team and we hung in there. Our big break came with the bases loaded and Slorn at the plate. He may be a goofball, but he's got a good eye and he managed to squeeze out a walk. When he got to first, I leaned over, knocked knucks with him, and said, "Way to go, bud. You just got the team's first RBI of the season." He looked slightly stunned for a moment. Then he grinned, said, "Cool," and looked towards second base with interest.

A couple of innings later, another one of our foundlings came up for his third at-bat. His prior ones had been three strikes up and down, ineffectual waves at pitches that weren't particularly close to the plate.

Again, an 0-2 count. Coach P. called time-out and waved him over. "Hey, what are you doing?"

The boy looked puzzled. "Not really sure, Coach."

"I can tell. Look, you've got two strikes and you need to protect the plate, but it's like batting practice. Just hit it."

"Okay, Coach."

Next pitch, he fouled off. The pitch after that he lined into the outfield for the hardest hit ball of the game, almost passing out with excitement when he reached first. So excited, in fact, that he couldn't hear me telling him to take two. So it goes.

And so it went. My youngest got a hit, preserving the two-year hitting streak that he believes puts him on par with DiMaggio. Good plays, bad plays, solid hits, strike-outs. Back and forth, until going into the last inning our team was down by five.

Now, at this level there's still a five-run rule, so the best we could do was even it up. We did, with P.'s son hitting a shot into right field to score three runners. If we could hold the other team scoreless, the game would end in a tie. If that's good enough for a Major League All Star game, it's good enough for us.

And there we were, a runner on third and needing one more out. Our pitcher delivered, the batter connected, and the ball lofted high over second base. The center fielder came after it, reached out his glove, and. . .

On a day like that, who cares?

In The On Deck Circle . . . .

We had the final team meeting tonight before this weekend's Opening Day. P., the guy I coach with, started by talking to the parents while the kids warmed up and looked at their new uniforms.

"There are three things we want to make sure everybody understands. First, the batting order is on a rotating alphabetical basis. During the course of the season everyone will bat lead-off a couple of times and everyone will bat clean-up a couple of times."

The parents of the child whose last name starts with "Z" shuddered.

"We're doing it alphabetically by first name."

They relaxed.

"Second, every kid is going to play every position he can handle without getting hurt or embarrassed. Catchers, pitchers, and first basemen have to be able to handle the ball. The rest of the positions are fair game. If your son wants to spend some extra time catching or throwing, give one of us a call. We're going to spend most of our free time for the next couple of months at the field with our own kids anyways."

No kidding. It's the only way to get them to shut up.

"Third, the most important thing is that we have fun. We'd rather lose all our games and have a blast than win them all without enjoying it."

The parents nodded and smiled, a good sign for the season ahead.

I took Slorn out to work on his throwing while P. warmed up the other kids. After a bit we talked about force plays, and stealing, and relays. A couple of the guys were clearly bored ("Please stand up and pay attention, yes you") but, God help us, a third of our kids have never played before and it's got to be done.

Then it was time to practice getting out of the way of wild pitches. P. tells them, "Listen, just dive out of the way. Don't try to protect yourself with the bat."

"If my bat's a light saber, can I just cut the ball in half?"

The kids laugh. P. and I look at each other, then we laugh too.

"Only if your parents have a good dental plan," says P. I'm not sure the kids get it, but they know it's supposed to be funny so they laugh some more. There are a few more light saber jokes, then we get back to work. They look okay, better than we'd thought a few weeks ago.

Practice ends. We gather the boys around.

"Opening Day is Saturday," we say. "You guys ready?"

They nod, serious. Like warriors, or the way they think warriors should be, or the way that actors pretend to be warriors.

"Good. Here's what we want. If you strike out, have fun. If a ball goes through your legs, chase it and have fun. If you lose, have fun. Does everybody understand?"

They think for a moment. There are a few, my youngest and P.'s son among them, who hate losing.

"Does everybody understand?" we ask again.

"Yes, coach," they reply, not completely convinced.

It doesn't matter whether they believe it. What matters is that they hear it, that they hear it from us, from their parents, from all the adults in their lives that teach them how to grow up. That they hear it, over and over and over.

Opening Day is Saturday. We're going to have fun.

Just When I've Had Enough

The middle boy came home today while I was on the phone.

"Dad!"

Crap, I'm on a business call.

"DAD!!"

I snap my fingers a few times, trying to get his attention from the study.

"DAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Sorry," I say into the phone. "Just a second."

I stick my head out the door. "Hang on, buddy, I've got to finish."

My client laughs when she hears me. "Say hi to your son," she says. I like my client.

We finish the call and I go upstairs. He's eating popcorn and watching SportsCenter.

"What's up?" I ask. I hate popcorn. It stinks, it gives me a stomachache, and I always eat too much.

"I got my math test back," he says, smiling that awkward grin that a lot of middle schoolers have, not little boys any more but not yet adults. I got an 'A.' Pretty good, huh?"

"Yes it is. Pretty damn good. Way to go, man."

We do the high five thing, I muss his hair, and he turns back to the television. I look at him for a minute, wondering how this kid came to be.

Pretty damn good. He is that.

What Is The Sound Of One Boy Yapping?

Our baseball team had its first scrimmage this weekend. As I could have predicted, it started raining about an hour before the scheduled start. Several of the parents called, clearly hoping it was going to be canceled, but I'm nothing if not stubborn, and damn it, I wanted to see some baseball.

Most of the boys showed up. After the rain had lessened from torrent to downpour, we bolted from our cars to the field. The parents dutifully followed, huddling together for warmth under umbrellas and trees. When my youngest complained that he was cold, I told him to go stand in the outfield and hold up his aluminum bat so that the lighting wouldn't hit the rest of the kids. We weren't actually playing in a thunderstorm, even I'm not that stupid (or at least the team mom isn't), but it did keep him from bitching at me for a few minutes.

And what a weekend for for that it was. It started last Thursday, actually, when he was begging me to buy him something. I'm not quite sure what he wanted, I wasn't paying that much attention, but he annoyed me to the extent that he got "The goddamn money tree isn't in bloom" speech.

My other kids know me well enough that they'll usually be quiet for a few minutes when I'm off on this particular tirade. Not my youngest, however. Like I'm stubborn? He's worse, by a factor of 10 or 20. I think he gets it from his mother.

In any event, halfway through a long and involved lecture on Snag Family microeconomic theory, he starts in with, "I know you have enough money to buy it for me. I saw that letter you got from the bank." Meaning my retirement account statement. That'll teach me to leave the mail on the counter.

I tell him, "That's the money I need to retire someday." I doubt I'll ever use it because my kids will be the death of me long before that day, but I like to dream.

"Oh," he says, "you want to retire. I guess that means you're too lazy to work."

"Jesus Christ. That's right, I'm too lazy to work when all I do is haul my sorry hide into the office every day so I can buy crap for you and your brothers. Like the golf clubs you want for your birthday, which at this rate you're never going to get. I'll give them to some poor kids instead."

"See," he replies. "You hate me. You like the poor kids better."

At this point, he's more right than he knows, but I'm not going to acknowledge that. Instead I tell him, "Knock it off. I coach your soccer, your basketball, your baseball, I spend a freaking fortune on you. You're the most spoiled kid I know."

"Katie doesn't like you." This apparent non sequitur is a reference to our black Lab's presumed solidarity with him.

"I don't care," I tell him. "She has rabies anyways, like Cujo. We're going to have to put her to sleep soon, before she attacks you."

"You can't. We'll put you to sleep first."

"Good," I answer. "You'll be doing me a favor. Then you can take my money and go buy a better dad."

He pauses for a minute to contemplate this attractive possibility. It's the best part of my day so far. Then he starts in again.

"I bet you won't even buy me Tic-Tacs. No, you need the 87 cents to retire."

Enough. I turn up the music, and the Raveonettes temporarily drown him out. To think my mother recommended taking him to a speech therapist when he was two "because he doesn't seem to talk very much."

Besides being stubborn, he makes a hobby out of nursing grudges. It made for a tiresome weekend. Every time he was denied a hot dog at the park, a basketball at the sporting goods store (where, incidentally, he got his new golf clubs), or any other bright and shiny thing that caught his attention, it was, "Oh, you won't buy that for me. You want to retire." Said with a tone that one would normally reserve to accuse someone of molesting farm animals.

Then came the scrimmage. We weren't out there long, it was raining too hard for that, but everyone got a chance to bat. When it ended, we headed home for dinner. As he got out of the car, he looked over, gave me a smile, and said, "Thanks, Dad. That was fun."

Which is the reason I did it.

Come On Down To Snag's Place, Baby

Spring has sprung! Tonight the neighborhood is celebrating with an old-fashioned game feed. We'll be firing up the grills and smokers, opening up some homemade brew, and shoving food down our gullets.

Just look what's on the menu:

Grilled udder - Around here, we only use line-caught cows.

Braised possum - No need to stuff them, they're already full!

Pan-fried yarbles - A melt-in-your-mouth delicacy.

Roots - If you like root vegetables, you'll love roots.

Smoked face - Beef, pork, chicken, fish, it's all good.

Siamese cheese - It's not easy milking a cat, but nothing worthwhile ever is.

Thorn pie - If a little roughage is good, a lot is better.

So stop on by. We'll have yak races, an ass-painting booth, and skeet shooting for the little ones. At midnight we'll stoke the fire, cordon off the area, and have our annual drawing.

Hope to see you. Maybe you'll be this year's lucky winner!

Coach Of The Year, Part 2

The other night at baseball one of the kids came up to us after practice. He's a 9-year-old.

"Hey coach."

"Hey bud. You were hitting pretty well out there tonight."

"Yeah. Sure. Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I'm never going to be a major leaguer."

"You never know," we told him.

"It doesn't matter, he said. "Music's my passion. I want to be a rock star."

"That's good too."

"I think so. By the way, who's the team parent?"

We told him.

"Thanks," he said and started walking away.

This could be a problem.

"Wait a second, come back here," I yelled. "Why do you want to know?"

"I need to talk to her about my uniform."

"About what?" I asked.

"I don't like my last name. I'm going to tell her to put something else on it."

"Um, sorry, that's not going to work," I told him. "Everybody's going to be using their real names."

"Last year my coach called me Sporto."

"Well, we'll call you anything you want," I said, "but you still need your real name on your jersey."

"Okay. Will you call me Slorn?"

I shrugged. "I guess, if you want me to. Coach P., you okay with that?"

Coach P. rolled his eyes and said, "Sure."

I looked at the kid and said, "You're kind of a goofball, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he replied as he headed toward the parking lot. "We have a lot of goofballs in my class. A couple of idiots too."

It's going to be an interesting season.