This past weekend marked the entrance into the life now known as “All About Brian”. I had a life once; maybe not a huge one by some standards (ok … by a lot of standards), but it was a life I controlled. There were the wine tasting weekends where a group of friends joined me in the annual, 'Barrel tasting and let’s-check-out-men-for-Catherine' day, or the spur of the moment, 'Let’s drive to San Francisco-go-out-dancing-and- check-out-men-for-Catherine' Friday night. This really worked for me.
Then something happened. (Loud screaming heard in distance). Brian became his own person – very much his own person. I call this stage (affectionately) “Brian: 11 going on 35”. Suddenly he has an opinion on everything and feels quite free to express himself - even if it means telling me I should go to bed earlier and walk more. Did my mother take over his body? I am told this is a phase. I don’t know … my brother still picks apart the condition of the vehicles I drive … it looks as if his so called “phase” has lasted since I was born (ruining his one man show).
I was thinking about this on Friday night when Brian informs me that ‘WE’ need to go to bed early. Saturday is a busy day of Brian "engagements". I look at him and grin. You know ... the kind of grin only a redhead has when she is thinking, “Isn’t that cute”? but is really thinking, “Isn’t that cute and I’ll turn up the heater in his bedroom and he’ll be asleep in two minutes.”
BUT when the shrill of the box thing (some call it the alarm) went off at 6:30 am on Saturday I wished that I listened and got my butt into bed before midnight. Who in their right mind gets up this early on a Saturday morning that isn’t catching a plane to some exotic locale? Oh yeah, parents of kids who play sports.
I did have to marry an ex-jock.
And procreate with him.
And insist he be a part of our son’s life after the divorce.
Yeah ok … it was me.
On Saturday morning the fog was so thick you could have scooped it in your hands and formed it into snowballs. Everything was wet - even the air. By 8:00am we are out the door with a baseball glove, bat, coffee, newspapers, basketball shoes, coffee, change of socks, basketball uniform, coffee, a basketball, snacks, water, Gatorade, coffee, a blanket (and if I was a worse parent a flask of whiskey for warmth). Oh how I do love coffee. I love it so much that if I could, I’d marry it. Brian understands not to talk to me until I have had that first sip of the dark elixir I love. (He enjoys living).
So there we are driving across town in search of a grade school I have never heard of for baseball try outs. Brian’s dad is with us and that whiskey flask thing could have helped, because the man won’t look up directions to save his mother. So naturally we have to go to three grade schools (all with empty fields) because he “figures he knows where the try outs M I G H T be.” I guess it is some exjockdar (ex-jock radar) that hones them in on sporting events held out in the open…? Meanwhile Brian is starting to back seat drive … this from a kid who shrugs when you ask him where he lives. He thinks he is going to find out where the tryouts are ... by...? .... I am glad I have snacks so buzzards won’t circle when we run out of gas driving in circles.
Finally my ex happens to drive by a grade school, recognizes the name and turns the car abruptly into the driveway, causing all Brian’s gear to trade places with Brian in the back seat. I swear we were airborne over the speed bumps. You’d think Barry Bonds was arriving for Spring training. Brian says, “Oh yeah, I knew it was here…”
There, in the back of the school is this large, VERY wet baseball field covered in fog. Confused parents are shuffling kids along and yelling to pick up their feet, so I know we are in the right place. What I don't know is why we hurried since no one is ever organized at these events. It takes another half hour for Brian to get his try out number and find his place in line.
Parents: LET THE WAITING BEGIN.
Everything that can be touched, walked over, brushed near, held and looked over is dripping wet with dew. My socks are wet through my shoes before I have even finished half my coffee or the first kid is at bat. Naturally, because I am not wearing make-up (and my non-washed hair is in a pony tail under a Operating Engineers hat) I meet all the parents of Brian’s friends who I have never met before. If only I could have been smoking a long cigarette, carrying a dog, holding a near beer and wearing fuzzy slippers too ...
When I used my newspaper as protection over the bleacher seats (so my butt wouldn’t get wet) my guess is I appeared to be one smoking-hot momma, as not one person sat anywhere near me.
AND WE WAIT.
Naturally the God in my life has a hilarious sense of humor: Brian was dead last in his division try outs. Have you ever sat on a cold wet bleacher bench for two hours watching a bunch of kids try out for baseball? I think our enemies could use this for torture as I would have sold my brother for a heater and a reclining chair. The last half hour before Brian’s great appearance, my ex is pacing in front of me. Jaysus, Brian isn’t trying out for the Giants.
AND WE WAIT.
Finally Brian runs to the outfield and gets in position to receive pop fly balls. He has never played baseball – except with me. (I hear you people screaming) Brian’s dad his biting his upper lip. First shot up … up … Brian casually runs forward and the ball drops right into his glove. I grin. He throws it to the guy at third. My ex looks at me in shock. Second shot up … up …. the ball lands in Brian’s glove, stays for a sec, and pops out as Brian forgets to cup his hand over his glove. He quickly bends, gets the ball the throws it to third. I grin. My ex looks at me in shock. The coaches bring Brian into short-stop. They bat grounders to him. He easily scoops up each and throws the balls to first. My ex is now leaning forward. I grin.
Then Brian is up to bat. I have been waiting for this, since Brian is of the opinion the baseball coming from the pitcher belongs to him. He loves to hit the ball like rams love to butt on the side of a mountain. I have begged him hundreds of times to stop playing ball and let me go in the house to rest. The try outs are using an electric pitcher at 65mph – even better – since I have to pry Brian from batting cages. The first pitch Brian swings and pop-flies it straight up. The second pitch Brian pop-flies it straight up. The third pitch Brian connects and hits a line drive right into the electronic pitching machine, knocking the guy over backwards sitting behind it in a chair. The coach playing shortstop grins at Brian. My ex looks at me. I grin. On the forth and final pitch Brian hits it between second and third into the outfield and runs the bases home. The coaches slap his back and tell him it was a job well-done.
Brian did well in front of hundreds of strangers, his father and the fact he has never played ball. My ex looks at me, grins and says, “Wow. I am so proud. He did really good. He can play baseball”. (My eyes roll into the back of my head out the back on to the ground...) Well no shi*. He only has two cousins who played in the majors. It is in his blood DAD. He has the body of Babe Ruth. Of course he will do well HE LOVES this sport. It is the one sport we were hoping he wouldn’t play because the season goes on forever and pretty much prevents us from enjoying any major holiday through the summer. Yep, this will be his sport. It's karma.
Me and my soggy butt, soggy shoes and wet hat get up to find Brian and give him a hug, where he proceeds to load me up with his sweatshirt, glove, hat, bat and ball. I have now become his official coat rack. My feet are so cold I can’t feel them. I am carrying half my son’s closet while he is running and chasing bugs. Clearly I am not at my best redhead thinking before noon. At least he had the decency to open the car door for me.
We leave baseball to head directly to his basketball game. My own dating life has never been this active. Brian is changing in the car. See… this is my new life. We arrive at the gym just in time for Brian to warm up. At least I get to sit in a chair with a back in a room that is warm and dry. I sit down in time to watch the parent’s of the preceding game gather their kids to leave. I hear several saying, “Ok, what time is your soccer game?” OMG it is contagious! (RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!)
Brian’s team wins their game and Brian points out to me they have only lost when I was not at the last game. No guilt there. (Global warming is my fault too. We redheads give off too much heat). We then get fliers reminding us that Sunday is “Basketball Appreciation Day” and the teams get their awards at 10:30am. Since this is a Christian-based basketball league I know what this means … we are going to be sitting through a Christian service while we wait for the award part. See… my God does have a great sense of humor. More dharma.
Finally we are done with Brian’s sports by 1:00pm Saturday and I have a small window to clean the house and get some laundry done. (Doesn't this sound like a party with the in-laws you don't like?).
The next thing I know it is Sunday and I am at a Christian Fellowship listening to strangers praise God, while Brian fidgets like someone has placed hot rocks under his butt. Being Catholic, we approach church in a much more suffering, serious, we look ill way. I don’t want to sing, dance or hold hands – and NO I don’t want to yell “Praise God” at any time unless I am having sex with tall, dark and handsome. As a Catholic I have the reassurance I can sit silent in church, always looking down and file my fingernails... with the highlight being the wafer with the wine.
But no, this is a happy place where people talk to you and sing happy songs. They praise God and Jesus ... out loud. People look at you and smile ...say hello. It makes me feel faint. I keep watching for the exit. FINALLY Brian tells me we are done … and faster than a cowboy drinking a shot of tequila, I race for the car.
Now one might think my weekend devoted to Brian was over … but no…
Sunday afternoon was spent entertaining his two new friends who’s father is the new Assistant DA in town.
DA.
No pressure.
I did get to see the last three minutes of the super bowl. I heard Prince did something that looked like a great big phallic symbol. How did I, a redhead, miss THAT? I'll just cry now.
Until next time-
C
PS. And my future...
This is my Uncle and cousin Larry. My Uncle (on the left) is 6'1 ...
Larry pitched for the Twins organization in the 80s. He is the biggest man I have ever known. This is who Brian aspires to be. (Sigh) It's gonna be a whole lot of peanut butter and potatoes...
