Fifteen years ago, the Casey's West White Sox had polyester uniforms. They're now mesh, and pinstriped. Times have changed.
The old ones were white uniforms with orange and black stripes around the V-neck. And the black lettering on the neck and numbers was actually more a waterlogged black. It varied though, some lettering was just a tired brown.
Just guessing, I'd say the tired brown was courtesy of a bleaching faux pas by a former mom. In addition to the mix and match color, these jersey's had not one hole for ventilation. You could say, they were toasty.
Real toasty. Hot enough, a travel size deodorant traveled in my Slugger bag.
In particular, those uniforms were extra toasty one game though.
That game, a regular season game at VFW Field, Dick Bergstrom, our head little league coach, notified me during warm-ups that I might get some innings on the hill. I was just a fourth grader and we had two pitchers, Jared Jensen and Skip Rogers, both sixth-graders, who were straight up grown men. Skip, I believe, had facial hair. And I once saw him bare hand a line drive. Jared lacked facial hair but threw smoke, and was flirting with the 6-foot mark as a sixth-grader.
So, you can see why I was surprised that I was getting innings. As it turned out, coach Bergstrom made good on his statement, calling me in for some innings late in the game. As mentioned it was a regular season game, I was still nervous nonetheless.
My palms soaked the seams of the ball; I might as well been throwing spitters to the catcher. I had no composure. Did the hitters notice? What would my dad say?
He'd say "keep your composure Kyle."
So, that's what I attempted to do.
Warm-ups end; here comes the first hitter.
Then, out of somewhere... I'd guess the fifth row, I hear...
"You can do it, honey!"
It was so loud, thunderous enough for people flower shopping at Earl May to hear.
I was instantly steamed.
I knew who it was.
Mom.
Composure failed.
Was she trying to ruin my reputation with the fourth grade girls? And the fifth and sixth grade for that matter.
Did she know, my head little league coach, was the HEAD football coach?
Does she know "honey" is a sissy term?
These questions were buzzing through my head.
I was a fourth grader. So, I took it even harder... this situation was worse than death. I thought.
The game ended. For once, the results of the game didn't matter. I just wanted some "mom" time. I think you know what I mean.
As soon as I get in our SUV, I start in.
"I can't believe you."
Honey...really!?
My brother's in the back.
Quiet.
I continue to ramble, yell. A few times, I'm not sure I know what I am saying. It's just blabber. The sentences don't even make sense.
For 15 minutes, the length of our drive home, she took the lecture. Funny now, it reminds me of some of the lectures I received from her in middle school and into early high school.
But, never again did she call me honey.
From then on, she bought Hot
Tamales for all my games. They provided her with something to do, preventing her from yelling, she told me once.
I tell this story four days before Mother's Day, proving that no matter the circumstances, you're still going to love your mom. And really, looking back now, she was just nervous, like all moms are. I'm not a parent, but I can sympathize
Athletes: Make sure you give your mom a hug, and if you're comfortable, a kiss. They don't lug around that bag full of band-aids for your cuts , that bottle of IB Profin for sore arms or Powerade for your thirst... for nothing. They do it for you.
Mom's are the greatest people in the world.
And mine is no different.
Love ya ma. Happy Mother's Day.