By Timmy T. Tater, Chief Spud and Editor
The Sweet Potato
The Riverside Water Moccasins 10U travel baseball team had arrived at the Fall Showcase Tournament, and with them came the most dysfunctional traveling circus since P.T. Barnum hung up his top hat.
The Legend in His Own Mind
Rick Hanson positioned his folding chair at the prime spot along the third-base line, cracking open his first energy drink of the morning at 7:47 AM. His backwards baseball cap and wraparound sunglasses screamed “I peaked in 1997,” and he was about to make sure everyone knew it.
“See that kid at shortstop?” Rick announced to no one in particular. “That’s where I played. District champs, three years running. Had a .487 average my senior year. Could’ve gone D1 if I hadn’t blown out my knee.”
His wife, Sandra, didn’t even look up from her phone. She’d heard this story approximately 4,000 times. The knee injury had actually been a mild sprain from rec league softball when he was 34.
“Your son’s best position is the bench.” muttered Bill, sitting three chairs down.
“Yeah, well, they don’t understand his potential yet. In my day, I would’ve made that catch blindfolded.”
On the field, Rick’s son dropped a routine fly ball.
“THAT’S OKAY, CHAMP! THE SUN WAS IN YOUR EYES! JUST LIKE THAT TIME I MADE THAT DIVING CATCH IN THE REGIONALS!”
There was no diving catch in any regionals.
The Lululemon Incident
Lucy Morrison arrived at 8:15 AM in what could only be described as “athleisure painted on.” Her yoga pants defied several laws of physics and possibly a few municipal ordinances. Her sports bra masqueraded as a top, and her ponytail swung with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
The mothers’ section became a chorus of judgmental whispers.
“Is she aware there are children present?” hissed Karen.
“I heard she’s single,” added Debra, as if this explained everything.
“Well, I would NEVER—”
Meanwhile, three dads suddenly discovered urgent business near the concession stand, which happened to be in Lucy’s general direction. Another dad developed an immediate and intense interest in the ground near her chair. His wife smacked him with a sun visor.
Lucy sat down, completely aware of the chaos she’d created, and sipped her green smoothie with the satisfaction of a Greek goddess surveying her domain.
The Clueless Contingent
Doug and Martha Peterson had been informed by their son that this was a “big tournament.” They arrived with folding chairs, a cooler, and absolutely zero understanding of baseball.
“Why did he just stand there?” Doug asked when their son took a called third strike.
“I think you’re supposed to catch it,” Martha offered.
“No, honey, that’s the other team’s job.”
Three innings in, Martha stood and cheered wildly when the opposing team hit a home run.
“Martha, that’s—never mind,” Doug said, giving up.
“Is it halftime yet?” she asked during the third inning.
A nearby dad groaned audibly.
“What? I’m just asking! This is very confusing. Why are there so many umpires?”
“There are two.”
“That seems excessive.”
By the fifth inning, Martha had asked if they “do the wave” at these things and whether there would be a Zamboni between innings. Doug had stopped correcting her. Their son pretended not to know them.
Pappy Ed’s Commentary Track
Edward “Pappy Ed” Williams had taken his position behind the backstop with his fold-out stool, a practice he’d perfected over forty years of youth sports attendance. He provided running commentary like a sports radio host that nobody had asked for.
“CONNOR WOULD’VE HAD THAT!”
Connor, his grandson, was in left field, nowhere near the play at second base.
“IN MY DAY, WE KNEW HOW TO TURN A DOUBLE PLAY!”
“Pappy Ed, please,” his daughter begged.
“THAT’S OKAY, CON-MAN! THAT PITCHER’S GOT NOTHING! YOUR OLD PAPPY ED WOULD’VE HIT THAT OUT OF THE PARK!”
Pappy Ed was seventy-three and had last swung a bat during the Carter administration.
“THE UMPIRE’S BLIND! THAT WAS A STRIKE! I CAN SEE BETTER THAN THAT AND I’VE GOT CATARACTS!”
This continued for seven straight innings. By the end of the game, three families had moved their chairs specifically to get away from Pappy Ed’s play-by-play. He didn’t notice. He was too busy explaining how Connor would’ve pitched better.
The Sibling Hostage Situation
Nine-year-old Emma had been dragged to her brother’s tournament with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to a root canal. She’d brought: her iPad (dead battery by 8:30 AM), a book (abandoned by 8:45 AM), and an attitude that could wilt flowers.
“I’m BORED.”
“Emma, please, your brother’s playing.”
“This is STUPID. Baseball is BORING. I hate it here.”
She began doing cartwheels directly in front of people’s chairs.
“Emma!”
Then came the singing. Off-key. Loud. The same three lines from a pop song, repeated indefinitely.
“EMMA LOUISE!”
She started a game where she tried to catch every foul ball, running directly into people’s personal space, knocking over a coffee, and stepping on someone’s lunch.
She asked to go to the bathroom seventeen times in two hours.
She collected rocks and threw them at trees, narrowly missing a parked car.
By the sixth inning, every parent who wasn’t hers was giving their own children threatening looks that said, “Don’t you DARE.”
The Romance Subplot
Brad had been preparing for this moment. Single dad for two years, he’d spotted single mom Jennifer at the last tournament. Today, he was making his move.
He positioned his chair casually close to hers. Too close. Then moved it back. Then forward again, like a hermit crab with anxiety.
“Beautiful day for baseball,” he opened.
“Sure is,” Jennifer said, politely, her eyes never leaving the field.
“Your son plays… baseball?”
Nailed it, Brad thought. Smooth.
“Yes, that’s why we’re here.”
“Right, right. Mine too. Baseball. He plays it.”
A painful silence.
“So… do you come to these often?”
“Every weekend,” Jennifer said, the exhaustion clear in her voice.
“Me too! We should… you know… grab our kids and get them… together… for more baseball.”
Jennifer finally turned to look at him, trying to determine if he was having a stroke.
“They’re on the same team, Brad. They’re already together.”
“Right. Right. But like, outside of the team. For pizza. Or… other foods.”
Across the stands, Lucy in her Lululemon armor watched this trainwreck with barely concealed amusement. Rick was explaining to anyone who’d listen about his legendary batting stance. The Petersons were arguing about whether “home plate” was actually where players lived. Pappy Ed was shouting about how Con-Man should be batting cleanup. Emma was seeing how many Skittles she could fit up her nose.
Jennifer looked at Brad, looked at the chaos around them, and made a decision.
“You know what? Pizza sounds good. Friday at 7?”
Brad nearly fell off his chair.
And somewhere on the field, twelve kids played baseball, blissfully unaware that they were merely extras in the greatest reality show ever created: youth travel sports.
The score was 8-6.
Nobody was entirely sure who won.
But everyone had opinions about it.
Weekend pass admission is $20 per person, which seems steep, but when you get baseball AND a weekly reality show, it’s dirt cheap!
Epilogue: They all returned the following weekend for another tournament. Brad and Jennifer went on that pizza date. Emma brought slime to the next game. Pappy Ed’s commentary got louder. Rick’s stories got taller. The Petersons brought a football by mistake. Lucy wore shorts even tighter. The kids kept playing. The circus continued.
