Teaching Them Things
(1) Strike Two!
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| Spring League |
The Tricks of Sociopathy
There is a how-to. Genetics aren't everything. Book burning, Nazi Germany, 1933 I have to preface this by saying that I can only speak from then lens of my own culture, not teach (well) about anyone else’s. Although I would like to say that I could write from the perspective of someone who lived in Japan, or France, or Iraq, it would be warmed over, the experience of another. So here’s what you get when you read from the perspective of a Jew. When some of us mention Hitler we add the words, y’mach sh’mo (sounds-like, rhymes-with y’locked-sh’go ), meaning, His name should be obliterated from the face of the earth. On Tuesday some of your Jewish friends or co-workers might have looked ashen and tired, fasting (yet going to work, which isn't encouraged but necessary sometimes) the fast of T’isha B’Av (sounds-l...
It is baseball season, and my grandsons are old enough to throw a league much better than me. This hasn't always been the case. Having had two athletic brothers, when other girls played with Barbie dolls, we played running bases. You learn to use a mitt. I never looked back.
Except I haven’t had my own mitt for a long, long, time. When it would have made sense to play catch with my own sons, work got in the way. If you don't work the afternoon/evening therapy shift as a young therapydoc, you don’t establish a practice, not quickly. If you do work until late evening, you won't see the afternoon sun, nor the sunset, not in the winter. Or your kids, either, you won't see them. It is a trade-off. The dues we pay.
You hope quality trumps quantity, and that you will get by with your charm.
I go through every single mitt before choosing a Wilson A300. The Wilson A300 is a shorter glove, has a shorter pocket than, say, the Wilson A350.
The larger the mitt, the easier it is to catch those hard to reach flies. But for me, it doesn't matter; this one will work just fine. It is exactly the size of my childhood glove.
That one my older brother gave to me. He was eight, I was six. Nobody else would use it, that's how used it was, probably my father gave it to him. This one is the same chocolate color, and it is new.
There is, however, some difficulty in the decision. My two grandsons only have one mitt between them. Buying two mitts might be a more elegant idea. The three of us will play together. Except they will mostly be playing without me, because although I'm the boss of me, no workie, no foodie. So one mitt is enough to start us off.
Other variables matter, too. I want to see how well they will take care of a mitt, even if it isn’t technically theirs, before shelling out another thirty plus bucks. Will the glove make its way into the house after they argue and one child stomps inside for water? Or will it lie fallow overnight on the front lawn, or even for a few days, until a punk walking by considers it public domain, walks off with it.
One glove is enough to test their maturity.
So I tell the eight-year old, on the way to school, that I plan on buying myself a mitt and ask if he wants to play with me when I get home from work. Indeed he does.
Home at about six-fifteen, waving my Wilson A-300, he looks absolutely astounded. “You really bought a mitt?”
“Why would you do that?”
“It will be stolen if you guys are in charge of it, for sure. This is Chicago. You heard the story about the woman who drove up to the curb and tossed a plastic Big Wheel tricycle from our front yard into her trunk. And it wasn’t even a new tricycle. I’m not over it.”
“Oh yeah, I heard that story. Did she go to jail?”
“No, we didn’t press charges. She said she didn’t think anybody cared about the trike. She thought we had left it out as garbage. That’s exactly what will happen with my new baseball glove if I leave it to you guys. Except this time we won’t get a license plate on the thief. He'll be long gone when we notice the mitt is missing.”
He promises up and down he’ll take care of it, and I relent. He has a special place in the house for bats and balls, mitts. He is confident my glove will be well-guarded.
Cool.
Five minutes playing catch, an entire lesson—learned.
It is a case of overbooking, and if you are a doctor, or maybe just a person, sometimes you pack your day too full. Or you make a mental note about time and lose it. Call it mind fatigue.
When I made a 9:00 doctor's appointment for my mother on a Friday, I forgot that I drive the boys to school in the morning. That I drive them every day is routine, a pleasure for me, and we all take it for granted. It is simply what we do.
My mother lives in a residential facility and I’m never far away if she needs me. She has some difficulty getting herself ready for early appointments, but manages independently. Still. Would she be ready in time for me to pick her up and get the guys to school on time? There's her make-up, her hair.
I decide to take the boys first and swing back for her, even though it is out of the way.
One of the guys gets an earlier ride, so it is only me and the eight-year old on a beautiful spring day. He seems happy that it will be just the two of us. He opens the door to the front seat and hesitates before asking, “Is it okay if I put my backpack in the front?”
This is an odd request because there’s no reason it wouldn’t be okay. What he wants to ask is, “Can I sit in the front?” But he balks.
“Sure,” I tell him.
As we drive in the opposite direction from his grandmother’s residential facility, he cries out:
I explain the new plan.
I reinforce.
He did not.