Something both hilarious and terrifying is going on.

Every moment of the day, I’m on guard.  It’s as if I’ve stolen the mama eagle’s eggs, or taken the bees’ honey, or weed-whacked the passenger door on the neighbor’s Ferrarri.  Because I’ve been naughty, I’m constantly looking around for a karmic paddling of some kind; a punishment for my wrongs, but none has come yet.  I remain wary, because I know what I’ve done.

I missed the plate again.  With Adriana at bat.

Adriana is a sweet little five year-old dynamo on my daughter’s softball team, the Blast.  And she’s got skeellz!  Adriana can run fast, field tricky gounders, and throw all the way across the infield.  She follows coach’s orders with precision, and seems to enjoy herself immensely, even though she hardly ever smiles.  Best of all, when she’s at the plate, Adriana crushes the ball with a <PING!!> using the $98.00 bat her daddy got her.

Enter Adriana’s daddy . . . the problem, the danger, and the source of hilarity.

When I accepted the position of Assistant to the Assistant Coach for the Blast, I began to notice how parents would spectate.  Most mommies and daddies are quite well behaved, positive, and encouraging.  Even abysmal whiffing strikeouts are met with “Good swing, Katelynn!”  ”Nice try, Britney!” The false praise is a topic for another article, but for the most part we can say the group of Blast rooters is just swell.

Except for old Eagle Eye.

I’m going to have to just come out and say it:  it’s hard to not judge Adriana’s dad as someone who expects too much, enjoys too little, and over-emphasizes performance.  Sweet little Adriana crushes one to the fence.  She runs to second.  Eagle Eye stares stoically.  Sweet little Adriana makes a perfect pick & throw to first base.  Eagle Eye says, “Adriana, get the force out at third!!”  She looks back at her daddy every time and nods ‘yes’ stoically, but she appears to understand his orders only half the time.  Neither seems to be enjoying the game, the fresh air, or the camaraderie.  I get frustrated.

So, back to my paranoia . . . Of course the goal of the coach/pitcher in this league is to toss the ball right over the plate.  Something flat, slow, and about waist high . . . a pitch that Berkman would hit about 500 ft.  I always played ball, so it’s a pretty simple toss from 20 ft., really.  Until there’s PRESSURE.

"I'm a vegetable, Danny."

I’d been feeling it all season but the intensity ramped up significantly during the game this past Monday night.  Why?  Eagle Eye.  Right behind the backstop.  Arms folded.  Staring.  And I’m supposed to calmly toss this ball over the plate?

I shudder to think at what my punishment might be if I don’t find the plate (league rules say that after three pitches, the somewhat derogatory TEE is brought out and the girls hit off it; something that is so beneath Adriana).  At times I have felt so discombobulated that I’ll shortarm the pitch to Adriana, practically bouncing it to the plate.  GOOD THING I GET THREE TRIES, RIGHT?

To avoid complete failure, I resort to my own athletic performance modality:  visualization.  Instead of thinking, “Geez, I’d better throw a strike here,” which practically guarantees I’m going to chuck it over the backstop, I instead think of flowing milk.  It’s not regular 2%.  It’s Almond Milk coming right out of the Rice Dream container.  Smooooth.  Flowing.  Right over the plat . . . <PING!!>  OH THANK GOD Adriana crushed it again.

Everything is peachy until about 14 minutes later when she bats again and I continue my struggle.  The problem is that Adriana can have a perfect game, and her dad won’t cheer.  He just stares.  Maybe it’s his style, maybe I’m too judgmental, and maybe it’s none of my business.  But having tried to “break the ice” with this guy on numerous occasions before and after games, I’m given little more than return grunts.

“Man!  Adriana played awesome!”

“Grunt.”

“See you Saturday.”

“Gront.” (small hand wave, no smile)

If nothing else, Eagle Eye has me looking in the mirror and pondering my own attitude problems.  I think I may view myself as overly negative at times, yet around these girls I am downright chirpy.  I am happy and encouraging and fun, which is exactly what they need.  They DON’T need too many instructions and extra pressure.  They don’t need to be forcing out runners at third base and sacrifice bunting.  Got it?  Let the coaches coach, and if you have some input, try talking to us instead of grunting from 25 yards away.  After all, we are the volunteers.  We are the ones raking the fields and lining the bases.  Even a “thank you” or “hello” would be nice.

I hope I’m wrong about this guy, because I know firsthand what undue pressure can feel like.  No matter where it comes from (self, parent, peers) it makes the youth sports experience a complete drag.  When I talk to my kids about when I played, I always say “I wish I’d enjoyed it more” and “I was too wrapped up in winning and losing.”  Maybe it takes 40 years to realize what’s important, but seeing toxic developments early on – like in a 5-6 year old softball league – peaks my radar without fail.

So.  Are we having fun yet?  Just visualize flowing milk.  Yoo-hoo works well for truly desperate measures.

(names have been changed to protect the somewhat innocent . . . and me!)