Passionate About Boston
and the Moms Who Live Here

Confessions of a Baseball Mom

You see me coming from a mile away. I park my massive monstrosity of a vehicle, and out tumble a myriad of children.

Yes, I can read your mind.

“How did they all fit in there? Does she have a kid on every team? Is that kid even hers? Is that entire bag full of snacks? How is she balancing that iced coffee on her head like that?”

Yup. I am that baseball mom. The mom with four kids on three teams, rushing from field to field with a toddler strapped to her back, hoping to be there to cheer on at least some of her kids. You’ve giggled at scenarios like me in memes and gawked at me from the bleachers. Here I am, in the (potentially sunburned) flesh.

And I have some confessions.

I only know the score if it is really good . . .

. . . or really bad.

I have no idea what inning it is.

If it is starting to get dark out, I can venture a guess that it is “close to the end.” I am usually wrong. If I tell you I think the game is close to ending, bring a pillow because we are probably going to be spending the night on the bleachers.

I have trouble telling the kids on the field apart.

I have a chair positioned 50 feet away from a bunch of kids who are roughly the same size, sporting matching uniforms and wearing hats on their heads while they run after a ball like a pack of overly excited puppies.

Am I clapping for your kid? Am I clapping because I’ve got really bad eyesight and think it might be my kid? You’ll never know. Thank goodness they have numbers on their backs. Now, if only I could keep the numbers straight.

I live in fear of a pop fly coming in my direction.

Mainly because it could knock over my coffee. No coffee, no clappy — no matter whose kid it is.

I probably don’t know your kid’s name.

Heck, I probably don’t know your name either. I am great at remembering faces, but names? If you said it when we introduced ourselves, I probably forgot it by the time our handshake was done. It is something I have struggled with my entire life. If I haven’t referred to you by name since the start of the season, there is a 99% chance it’s because you are forever embedded in my brain as “number 7’s mom.” Throw me a bone once in awhile and refer to the lady sitting next to you by name, OK? I will remember by the time they are drafted to the Red Sox. I promise.

Maybe.

I’m grateful for the other baseball parents.

No matter how hard I try, I am bound to miss games here and there. I know I can always count on another team parent to drive my kids to the right field and cheer them on. Or to cheer on a kid who vaguely resembles them.

If you drive my kid, I remember your name. I promise.

I really do enjoy baseball.

The games may be long, I may be covered in mosquito bites, and my kids’ antics may make me cringe from time to time, but there is no place I’d rather be. Which is a good thing, because during baseball season, there is no other place I will be.

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