It happened again. We were in a tizzy collecting hats,
shirts, cleats, water bottles, gloves, mitts, bats and balls from the far
corners of the house and garage.
shirts, cleats, water bottles, gloves, mitts, bats and balls from the far
corners of the house and garage.
Unfortunately, clean baseball pants could not be found.
A little digging, literally, revealed that the best andfavorite baseball pants were in the damp and dirty heap of laundry which I had
been conveniently ignoring.
In the rush to get out the door, I urged the boys to wear
clean baseball pants, even if they were the ones with a hole or didn’t fit
quite right.
clean baseball pants, even if they were the ones with a hole or didn’t fit
quite right.
“Mom, these fall down when I run!” one of them said
incredulously. It was a tough point to argue, so I consented in a huff!
incredulously. It was a tough point to argue, so I consented in a huff!
“Fine. Wear the dirty ones.”
He quickly changed into the dirty ones that fit. When he
stood, I saw that the pants were grass stained from mid-thigh to below the
knee. A huge probably-never-gonna-get-it-out-anyway grass stain.
stood, I saw that the pants were grass stained from mid-thigh to below the
knee. A huge probably-never-gonna-get-it-out-anyway grass stain.
I looked him over and shook my head still wishing he would
wear the ill-fitting, clean ones. He saw it in my expression. Trying to draw me
back to reality he asked, “Does it really matter which pants I wear?”
wear the ill-fitting, clean ones. He saw it in my expression. Trying to draw me
back to reality he asked, “Does it really matter which pants I wear?”
I turned for the door and answered correctly, “No. I guess
it doesn’t.”
it doesn’t.”
It doesn’t matter if you wear grass stained baseball pants
to a baseball game where you’re going to get grass stains. I repeated it to convince myself, “No. It doesn’t matter.”
to a baseball game where you’re going to get grass stains. I repeated it to convince myself, “No. It doesn’t matter.”
As we headed toward the ball diamond they joined the team
around the pitcher’s mound. My boys are walking hampers. A declaration of my
laundry laziness.
around the pitcher’s mound. My boys are walking hampers. A declaration of my
laundry laziness.
I was almost ready to high-five myself for “getting over it”
when I realized there was someone new on the field.
when I realized there was someone new on the field.
A photographer.
Oh yeah.
Team pictures.
So I asked myself again, “Does it matter?” And with
disappointment I answered, “No.”
disappointment I answered, “No.”
Shouldn’t I feel relived that it doesn’t matter? Of course I should. But I was disappointed because
my laundry neglect was about to be memorialized in a glossy, full color, 5×7
print. Alas, I had pre-ordered a “sports folder photo package” to display at
home, wear as a button on my jacket, and place as a magnet on our fridge.
my laundry neglect was about to be memorialized in a glossy, full color, 5×7
print. Alas, I had pre-ordered a “sports folder photo package” to display at
home, wear as a button on my jacket, and place as a magnet on our fridge.
As I watched the photographer arrange the boys by height,
kneeling just right, in the dirt, I finally looked past the grass stains and
saw the boy inside the dirty laundry.
kneeling just right, in the dirt, I finally looked past the grass stains and
saw the boy inside the dirty laundry.
He posed confidently with grass-stained knees bent in a
batting stance. His photogenic smile was proof he had not wasted one second
wondering what other people think about his mom’s laundry schedule.
batting stance. His photogenic smile was proof he had not wasted one second
wondering what other people think about his mom’s laundry schedule.
Then she snapped the photo.
It will be a few weeks before I see how it turned out. But
when I get that “sports folder photo package” I’m going to display the dirty
grass stained picture. I’m going to put the magnet on my fridge, and if I’m feelin’ the team spirit, I might even wear the button.
when I get that “sports folder photo package” I’m going to display the dirty
grass stained picture. I’m going to put the magnet on my fridge, and if I’m feelin’ the team spirit, I might even wear the button.
Because the grass stained pants are worn by a boy who showed
his mom what mattered.
his mom what mattered.
And that is worth displaying.
[…] Those little boys in grass stained baseball pants—the ones who made sand castles in the dirt at first base–they grew up. They’re pitching fast, hitting hard and the grass stains are gone because the knees have been ripped right out of the pants due to a nasty slide. […]