And then I realized I had so much to do before we left to pick up N's friend at 12:30, so I had to start being a slug and start being something whole lot faster. I printed the ticket confirmation, slapped on a TCU hat, and off we went. Before we left, I looked at where I was going on the map, and printed directions. They were worthless. They took me to an entirely different street by the same name. And it was NOT where I wanted to be. Eventually, we found the stadium, got our tickets, and went to find a spot in the sunshine.
We found a good spot, threw our stuff down, and went to check out the line for $1 hot dogs/drinks/popcorn. H.O.L.Y. Cow. It was forever long. I was standing next to a security guard...and I thought he was standing there to keep the line "honest," but he was waiting for a dang hot dog, too! Finally, he had to go back to work, so he asked if I'd grab two dogs for him and gave me some money. I'm nice. There you go. I kept sending the boys back to watch the game, telling them to come back in different increments of time. When I got almost halfway through the line (45 minutes later), they came up, and watched the game from the first baseline until I needed them to help me carry stuff. That's right, folks...90 minutes for some hot dogs, but B proclaimed they were "The best hot dogs EVER." Obviously, the kid was absolutely starving.
After they ate, they decided to go play on the grassy hill. It's a spot where kids bring pieces of cardboard, and use the hill as a slide. It was packed. We had a front row seat (from our seats on the grass) of the visitor's bullpen, so they played and I watched. I might've drooled. It was hard to tell, and there weren't any witnesses. They were stretching and jumping and throwing and squatting...20 feet away from me. Oh, MAN. I love baseball.
And that's when I heard a commotion to my right. I look over, and this bigger kid is going after B...like, he's trying to throw a punch, and my B? He's not having it. He punched that kid, and I yelled, "B! You best walk away." He looked at me and nodded, but the kid wouldn't let go. And that's when N yanked the kid's arm off of his brother, and the kid swung around to take a swing at him. He didn't get very far because N was ready, and I yelled, "N! You walk away, too!" and the kid threw his arms up in the air in a "What?!" gesture and walked off.
A few minutes later, B was back up on the hill, and the kid came up behind him and tried to push B off his cardboard. B walked away and the kid followed him. He grabbed B by the arm, and I'd had enough. So, I walked up to the wall, and yelled, "Excuse me? You WILL leave my kids alone, or I will take care of it on my own. Do you understand me?" He stared. "Remove your hand from my son's body, or I will remove it for you. Are we clear?" He stared, but removed his hand. "This will not happen again. Do you understand me?" He stared, completely dumbfounded...and then that dang kid walked 10 feet away from my boys and their friend and sat down. TO POUT. Seriously. He was pouting and having a wonderful pity party...a big enough one to where his friend came over and started talking crap to all three of "my" boys.
My boys ignored him, then responded when he insulted them, but not with poor language. It really made the kid mad, so after saying something about being Christians, he and Mr. Pouty Face started dropping the "F" bomb everywhere. Super! And also very Christian of them. We left not long after that...and while the zoo traffic made the first 30 minutes of the ride home take FOREVER (stuck between two lights for 25 minutes), once I found my way to 30, I found the Bush, and we were to Wagon Wheel for N's practice with 20 minutes to spare.
Practice: Somehow, I was "selected" to be Team Mom. How does this always happen to me? I mean...I don't mind sometimes, but it's always me. Practice was good: the boys seemed to learn a lot, and B had a great ol' time with another little brother. He got beaten to a pulp by wild pitches from this kid, but didn't cry. Instead, he showed the kid how to get in a good batting stance and how to scoop up grounders. I was impressed. I pitched to him until he hit 10 times, and then watched the rest of N's practice.
After everyone else had left, I saw the coach & his son strapping on catcher's gear, so I made a comment about it to N. Before I knew what was happening, he'd jumped out of the car and RACED back over to the field to see if he could do it, too. So, that's how we ended up staying at practice until 9:30 at night...watching N get hit by ball after ball after ball, while he was learning to stop the ball. Not catch it, stop it. His coach's son has never played catcher before, so I guess his mentality was to make him realize, "Hey, I'm going to get hit by the ball. And it's going to hurt. But that's why I wear gear to protect myself." N was annoyed because he thought he was going to get to show off. He wasn't expecting a lesson in the basics. But I think it was just what he needed.
And who's always right? Oh, that's right...Mom.
Aubs
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