The Dust.

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The Evil Spawn is 9 years old (at least today she is 9… when I wake up tomorrow she will be 27).

During this stage of her life, I am required to be somewhere watching her do something at least 3 nights a week.

Different seasons bring different sports.

Every season brings on a case of bleacher butt, but that’s an entirely different blog.The Evil Spawn.  Softball Stud (or Not).

Soccer (ugh), basketball, golf, and softball all have a place on the family calendar.

Sometimes I coach.

Sometimes I get lucky and don’t have to coach.

Summer means softball.

It also means I’m not that lucky.

I’m coaching.

Every practice presents a new challenge.

One night it’s parents.  Another night it might be me spending 30 minutes trying to figure out why half the girls didn’t bring gloves (yet they NEVER forget their pink helmets, pink batting gloves, and pink shoes).

On a bad night I might stand in the outfield and wonder how mosquitoes get as big as cats.

Normally, I just wonder why I agreed to coach.

Coaching little girls must be similar to childbirth.

A few months after the painful parts, your mind goes blank and you forget what a horrific experience it was.

But it’s not all bad.

Once in a while something happens and I’m thankful I was there to see it.

Or hear it.

Like tonight.

I told a young lady to go play first base.

She was so excited.

She pointed and said, “Last year they (coaches) never let me play here!”

I said, “First base?”

“No”, she said, “On the dust.”

“On the dust?”, I responded.

“Yes, here on the dust” as she pointed to the ground.

Then I got it.

She never got to play in the infield.

Or now as it’s known.

The dust.

Coaching is fun.

At least until the next labor pain.

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4 Responses to “The Dust.”


  1. nbrach
    on May 14th, 2010
    @ 7:23 pm

    Turn around very, very slowly…
    because she WILL be 27 when you complete that turn…
    or 35…


  2. Laura
    on May 15th, 2010
    @ 5:32 pm

    Ah the softball field… what memories. I remember when I was 12, my dad came to every game he could. One time he was sitting in the middle of the bleachers surrounded by everyone else’s mom (yep, the only guy there). I had hit hitting a long, solid shot left of center. As I rounded second the coach was already signaling me to head for home but I couldn’t do it… I was laughing too hard. My father, who was about 6’4″, 220 pounds, was jumping up and down on the old wooden bleachers; all of the surrounding moms were being bounced around as the center of the bleachers sprung up and down under his weight. The outermost moms were actually catching air because the edges of the bleachers bounced like a diving board. Some of the moms were shocked, others amused, and a couple actually looked scared. Unfortunately, I can’t do the story justice in written words… so you’ll just have to visualize. It was hilarious.

    One day she will be 27, or 35; either way she’ll be glad that you were there. That even counts for those years when she thinks it’s totally uncool for you to be there.


  3. Diane
    on May 16th, 2010
    @ 7:23 am

    “On the dust.” Love it! I can just see her saying that.

    LMAO at Laura’s story. Too funny.


  4. Alicia Kessler
    on May 17th, 2010
    @ 9:48 am

    You forgot concessions. It is the only time they forget about accessories aka pink helmets. Once last year it was starting to rain and get dark. My then 6 yo bee-lined out of the batting line to beg me to get her post-game popcorn NOW before they close the stand.

    I like dust……that’s a good one.

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