Opening Day and #9

I remember the exact moment when I knew I didn't want to be one of "those" dads.

I was six years old, and playing in my first soccer game as left fullback for the Devils. The ball bounced its way along toward me, heading out of bounds. From across the field, the coach called out to let it go. Then a well-intentioned parent, standing on the sideline beside me trumped the coach with a triple-digit decibel battle-cry: "KICK IT!!!!". Maybe I was half-startled. Maybe the ball was going too fast. Nah--who am I kidding? I just plain, old-fashioned sucked. I made an attempt at the ball, which bounced off me and went through the back of the field for a corner kick for the other team. Not good. Not even for a six year-old.

Considering how slow and clumsy I was, there is only one explanation for me being in sports: Gatorade! Back when I started playing, they only had green. And then there was Gatorgum...I loved it when I was a kid, but now I know that it has exactly the same taste and gummy consistency as eighty seven-octane engine deposits.

So, when my Son decided to play baseball this year, I was filled with the memories of blood-oaths sworn upon myself not to be crazy at my child's sporting events. My wife not-so-subtly seconded the motion. I geared myself up to maintain self-control and be conscious of not transforming into a raving idiot at ballgames. Guess I should have prepared myself for the possibility that sports mayhem could arise even sooner…

It was the practice before the first game of the year, and the coach’s wife was handing out uniforms. I’m not too superstitious, but you can get stuck with a real crappy number if you aren’t careful—like three. Or, God-forbid, double-zero. That most unstable of numbers reserved for show-off punks and nerds.

So, I gently urged Ryan to go get a jersey. He wasn't interested—he’d rather run around and throw the baseball straight up in the air and see if it beans anyone in the head on the way down.

I could see that the coach’s son already had number seven—Of course, damn, it!

“Ryan, go grab number 9—that’s a good one.”

More running around. He grabbed a hat and, seeing another kid modeling his, turned it around backwards (at least it’s not sideways, which makes you look like you should be making lightbulbs in a home somewhere). Almost ran in front of a car…

Then he decided he does want #9, so he scooped it up and we pulled it on. Ahhhh, crisis avoided—let someone else have double-zero.

Five minutes later, another kid comes up to Ryan—HE wants to be #9. Geez, that’s too bad—go pick another one, kid. WE didn’t leg-tackle the coach’s kid for getting number seven—we all have to make sacrifices. The kid runs off after Ryan tells him “I want to be number 9.”

I can hear the kid talking to his dad. I can hear the dad talking back to the kid, with this special parent tone of voice that means you are acting like you are talking to your kid but you are actually directing the words at the nearby adult: Damn it, kid, just grab double-zero and shut up, already….

“Well, maybe I can talk to his dad and see if he’ll change his mind.”

To add to the awkwardness, here, it is important to note that this is the only African American kid on the team, and also important to add that I have this irrational compulsion to promote racial harmony and prove that I’m not a bigot by being extremely nice and (sometimes overly) friendly, give benefit of the doubt, and be very cooperative and non-confrontational.

He walks up very confidently and smiling, asking: “So, can we talk about a buy-out here?”

“Let me talk to him for a second and see what he says.”

Me (to Ryan): “One of your teammates really wants to be number 9—would you like to pick a different number?” (Thinking: of all the retarded things to have to discuss…)

“No, dad—I want to be number 9.” (I half-cheered in my own head, wondering how much of a wimp I would be if he actually had decided to give up the number, just because I didn’t want to overtly roll my eyes at this other dad—I wonder if Ryan could sense in my voice that I really didn’t want him to change?)

Me (to the dad): “I talked to Ryan, and I think he really has his heart set on number 9—probably because that was the number I wore when I played ball.” (Note: It is the truth that I wore #9, but Ryan very likely has no knowledge of it at this point--but I had to give a reason, right?)

“Really? Who’d you play with?”

“Uh, the Angels.”

“Oh yeah? I played triple-A minor league ball with the Braves ‘til my knee went out. When did you play?”

“Uh, I played with the Angels when I was ten.” (red-faced with my head down)

“Oh.” (A little embarrassed but somewhat comforted that the standards in professional sports were still sufficiently discerning).

So when I relayed the news, he responded “We lost a nephew last year, and Curtis wanted to wear his number in his honor”.

You gotta be kidding me? What can I do at this point? I guess he figured out that I wasn’t going to do anything, because I just meandered around the field and avoided eye contact.

Then came the day of the game. The dad wore a T-shirt complete with the image of the nephew in his sports uniform wearing #9. The dates of birth and death and his name nostagically stenciled on it. Ryan wore #9 on our team, and his kid wore number two.

Ryan slugged his first hit into the outfield for a 2-run triple on his first at-bat ever. He hit the ball the farthest of any player all day. I wore a big smile and felt the pride that is probably the root of all crazy, unruly behavior in kid’s sports—but I kept it in check and savored every minute (and took 135 pictures, which was my techno-geek form of a battle-cry).

And seated beside me was that same well-intentioned parent from the Devils’ sidelines, happily watching his grandson round the bases in the pristine green field.