Baseball Mom & Religion

It was Saturday, which meant that Scooter had a baseball game. The misconception is spring has nothing but lazy weekends as the school year winds down. Nothing is further from the truth. My weekends were spend at the ball field, and then in the office. My research on casinos would have to wait, although I was sure part ownership of one would help me devote most of my time to family stuff.

Scooter was pretty quiet this morning. His bronco team was playing the Cubs, a collection of preteen mediocrities of the lowest level save one: their star pitcher was a kid named Arnold. Arnold was six feet even in sixth grade and threw heat like Satan aiming at his former homies left in heaven. This kid could throw. As a result, no one on Scooter’s team could hit him. So they usually lost. Sadly, Arnold was not only a good pitcher, but a decent kid and a good sport. He seemed genuine when, at the post game lineup, he slapped hands with everyone on Scooter’s team and said, “Good game!”

Scooter had been catching since tee ball, and had a good bat, but hitting Arnold was just something he could not manage. No shame in it. The rest of his team couldn’t manage it, either. Made for a pretty sad afternoon, though.

“Look,” I overheard Scoompi say, “Let’s pray on this. All of this religion has got to be good for something. Let’s give it a try.”

Most parents would welcome their little ones taking the initiative when it came to religion.

I know my kids.

“Dear God,” Scoompi started.

“You mean Jesus?” Big brothers know all.

“I mean God. I don’t do middlemen. I go straight to the top. God SENT Jesus. That mean’s God is in charge. This is a God prayer. When we need for Little Timmy Rawlins to get a hit against a team you usually beat, we’ll call on Jesus. If you wanna beat Arnold, you need God…

“Dear God, Scooter and his team should really win this game today. You’ve already blessed Arnold with a for sure major league career, while my brother and his friends are stuck with limited talent that will assure them futures as accountants, eye doctors, or worse, teachers. Let them have this one win, because life for them in baseball is going to end soon and disappointingly enough. Amen.”

“I’m not saying Amen to that!”

I could almost hear her shrug. “Fine. Then lose.”

“Fine. Amen. Next time we pray to Jesus. And tone it down some. You don’t know none of us are going pro…”

“I know none of you can hit Arnold, and he’s gonna stay in the minors a while…”

“What was that crack about teachers? Daddy’s a teacher.”

“First, Daddy is a professor, and second, Daddy thinks he’s a doggone Indian. Teaching must do bad things to you.”

We walked to the park, the three of us. The missus was going to meet us there. I set up the camp chairs and bought Scoompi a snack. She took up her usual spot, in front of the fence, next to Scooter’s dugout. The boys all greeted her, loudest of all K.O, Scooter’s best friend.

“What’s UP, Scoomp!”

“Sup K.O.”

“We gonna lose.”

“Not today. I prayed for ya’ll.”

“Didn’t Sister Mary Tamika kick you out of religion class? Man, don’t pray for me.”

Scoompi ignored K.O. She had a little girl’s crush on him but had long ago mastered the grown woman’s art of ignoring what men think is logic.

The game started. Arnold came out and whipped three up, three down. Scooter’s team held their own, though. We were scoreless in the sixth when K.O struck out, again. Little Timmy Rawlins stepped to the plate. Timmy was Lilliputian, and I guess it clicked in his head that if he didn’t swing, Arnold’s heat would miss his strike zone. Four pitches later, Timmy was on first, grinning.

“C’mon, God,” I heard Scoompi mutter, “I really never ask for much.”

Little Timmy took off like a bullet for second and made it with time to spare before the Cubs’ lousy pitcher got the ball there. “Bout time,” Scoompi muttered, before looking heavenward and saying, “OK, thanks. But let’s not let them down.” She turned to the dugout and screamed, “Cheer him on you bums! None of ya have even SEEN base this game.”

One of the team mothers leaned over and said, “It’s so precious how passionate she is…”

It was something, but I wasn’t sure just what. My wife came over and sat down.

“Cubs? How bad we losing?”

“We’re tied, actually,” I said.

“Oh, goody! How’s my boy doing?”

“Actually, Timmy Rawlins is on…wow!”

Timmy took third. The Cubs’ third baseman was watching the ball fly over his head when the littlest guy on our team stole home, putting us up by one.

The boys in the dugout were cheering like Timmy was David taking down Goliath. Even Arnold waved and smiled from the mound.

Our next batter struck out, but we held them, and when it was over, our guys were grinning like they’d invented fire on a cold November night. Arnold stopped and gave Timmy a hug. Both sets of coaches were speechless.

Over the din, I heard a high pitched, “Yaaaaaaay! God!”

“What on earth could she mean? You have got to speak to her,” my wife said, but she too was happy with the win.

On the way to the car, the missus said, “Since we are so close, maybe we should do Saturday mass.”

Scoompi spoke up first. “Wuffo?”

“Well, aren’t we thankful the boys won?”

“Very. I gave God his props. Back there, where everyone could hear me, Mama.”

Scooter wanted to go to church like Frosty wanted a Bermuda vacation. I wasn’t dying to go either, but I realized Saturday afternoon mass meant sleeping in Sunday morning. Maybe even a nice cholesterol laden breakfast that I was usually forbidden.

“C’mon, Kids, Mommy has spoken,” I laughed. Scooter didn’t care. He was fresh off the win. Scoompi looked betrayed.

Saturday mass is more lighthearted, and goes by quickly. Scoompi refused to sing and flopped when she knelt and sat, but a couple of evil eyes from her mother stopped that. After mass, Scoompi walked right up to the visiting priest who officiated and pulled his stole.

“Hello, Cutie!”

“Do you talk to God Father?”

“We ALL talk to God, Honey. What’s wrong?”

“Well, because he lets you say mass for him, you probably have a quicker line to him than I do. Tell him Saturday mass was a dirty trick. I would have come tomorrow. I cheered him in public.”

“Public acknowledgement of God’s goodness to us is honorable, Dear. He is proud of you.”

That mollified her a bit, but not her anger stricken mother. I thanked the padre for his homily and walked forward, bumping into someone.

“Well, isn’t this delightful?” a deep female voice said.

Sr. Mary Tamika looked like, to many Caucasians, any other chocolate nun in a habit, one who maybe took her vows and orders a few years prior. To me, she looked like Ebony Ayes. I’d seen her once in street clothes, out of her habit but still in her coif and wimple, at the library. Different things make different people turn to religion. I had to beg for forgiveness after speaking and then asking, “Is your real name Phyllis?” She thought me a riot. My wife thought her a bit too friendly to be a woman of God. My logic? You give up so much to be a nun, why not have some laughs and a great attitude? I’d known nuns who were rumored to be drunks when I was in elementary school. A flirt, in my opinion, was a fair exchange.

Especially when you looked like Ebony Ayes.

“H’lo, sister,” I said, smiling. I caught my wife’s daggers in my back.

"Peace be unto you ALL," Sr. Mary Tamika hummed.

"As salaam alaikum," Scoompi spat.

The nun ignored her. “Doctor, Scooter, young lady,” her voice had a rhythm to it, like she was raised in the islands. “Or,” she said playfully, “shall I call you ‘Scoompi’, my dear?”

My baby drew herself up, squinted like Popeye as she looked upwards, and said, “Naw. Just call me by my government.”

I heard Scooter take in a breath. I saw my daughter’s hands fly to her behind as she shifted her glare from Sr. Mary Tamika to her mother, who was poised to strike again.

“What I do?”

My kids and I had an unwritten agreement. Should discipline be required, verbal or physical, I would wait until we were at home, in private. The exchange there was they then had to deal with whatever levels my wrath had swollen to, but it saved them embarrassment. As I got mad at them about once a year (less with the baby), this was a swell agreement.

One their mother did not honor.

“You were disrespectful, and I’ve had enough of it!”

“I just asked the sister to address me by the name YOU make them call me here, Alexandra Whosis…” she rubbed her bottom. Sr. Mary Tamika bit her lip.

“Apologize,” my wife growled.

“Sorry, Sister,” Scoompi said, still glaring at her mother.

“That’s OK, Scoompi,” Sr. Mary Tamika said.

Now, I caught that, but no one else did but my baby girl. She went from glare to glower.

We chatted briefly, the sister said she’d make an appointment for us regarding the Bad Friday nonsense, and she waved before moving on.

As we headed back to the car, my wife grumbled, “You know she didn’t speak to me.”

Innocently, I asked, “Really?”

“No. And she kept making eyes at you.”

“Thought she was looking at the baby.”

“You know what?”

“Honey,” I whispered. “Don’t get mad at me. You wanted to come to Saturday mass. I backed you up. Let’s go home and celebrate Scooter’s win. And next time, could you try to NOT break my child’s behind?”

“Hush. And drive.”

Scoompi glared at her mother’s back all the way home. Scooter was a happy camper. I tried to remember Ebony Ayes films from my college days. Religion is a good thing.