Standing in the beating sun on Sunday in the sixteenth hour of a baseball tournament this weekend, I realized that it is possible that youth sports have completely taken over my life. It started with a Little League evening at Nationals Park in Washington DC and continued through 24 innings of baseball from 9am until 5pm Saturday and Sunday. And the only reason we didn’t play Monday is because G’s team lost their third game.
It’s a sort of crazy sacrifice we ask the other kids to make too:
Hang out for hours at a game in which you can’t participate. Keep yourselves occupied, safely, and without fighting. Don’t complain about the heat or the boredom. Eat the food I’ve packed in the cooler, and stop asking for stuff from the snack shack even though every other kid at the field seems to be eating their third doughnut. Use the porta-potties that have been baking in the sun because there are no other bathroom options. It’s a lot to ask of anyone.
Yet, they did it, for the most part. And cheered their brother on, as well, through 24 innings of Little League baseball.
I’ve got to remember this when I get frustrated with them. They put up with a lot, generally uncomplainingly. They’re pretty awesome. And I probably shouldn’t be surprised when the days end like this: