Carys At the Bat

When we first joined the Fastpitch Softball Association in 2014, Emma was 10 years old and Carys was 7. Emma was more than ready to try competitive softball, and Carys was just anxious to be part of something like her big sister. There weren't enough players at 8U, so the younger girls were absorbed into the 10U team. This was a pretty ideal situation for our family because that meant both girls could be on the same team. They practiced together, competed together, and we had only one set of travel commitments. The thrill of being with the "big girls" was a huge draw for the little sis, and she threw herself wholeheartedly into the endeavor.

Like all of life's experiences, there was a balance of great and wonderful alongside some disappointment that year. Emma discovered a love of catching and met a whole new batch of friends through the softball program. Carys learned every word of every softball chant ever devised, she mastered the fine art of stealing home, and as a teeny tiny little 7-year-old had a strike zone small enough to practically guarantee a walk whenever she wanted one.

On the negative side, we discovered that youth softball in a couple of neighboring towns can be pretty competitive. First let me say that Fairmont's program is very healthy; they have amazing youth coaches who are in it for all the right reasons, and they are committed to skill development. We belong to a league that promotes the healthy kind of competition for young girls; I can always count on our league games to be friendly and fun.

Tournaments, however, can bring to light an entirely different dynamic. Some youth programs are in it to win it, and that is no joke. My girls got to travel with several different teams, which gave us a huge variety of experiences. We went to tournaments that required birth certificates to prove the ages of players. We played an elite team at a tournament who played rules we had never even heard of before (the Look-Back rule? Really?) and despite a 15 run lead were still stealing bases and congratulating themselves as if the national title was on the line. 

It was at one such tournament when little Carys, all 45 pounds of her, went up to the plate to bat against a 12-year-old pitcher brought (illegally) down to help her 10U team win the tournament. Our coach had already complained that the girl was throwing 40 mph and was clearly not a 10U player; the opposing coach arrogantly said, "Prove it. There's no birth certificate required here, so prove it." 

This mama was already getting a little hot under the collar watching this play out. Emma was a solid hitter for our team, and she was watching strikes fly by her. I expected Carys to get small in the box like she does and either get a quick walk or, more likely, a strike out. It never occurred to me that she could hit the ball. Nevertheless, she gave it a shot. She swung her little heart out and whiffed the first two in short order. Pitch #3 was low and inside. It was so far inside and coming so fast that my little one didn't have time to react. The pitch caught her squarely on the outside of her knee cap and dropped her like a sack of potatoes.

Now, as a coach, I have witnessed some real Mama-Bear mentality over the years. I have often marveled at Mamas who can go from zero to sixty in no time flat and appear to have no filter or ability to control themselves at sporting events. I never, ever, thought that would be me. Until it was. Holy cow, something comes over you when you see a baby cub hurting. I won't go into those embarrassing details here. I'll just tell you what happened.

Emma came flying out of the dugout followed closely by the coaches. Emma picked her sister up off the ground, walked next to her as she limped to first base so she could touch it and get a pinch runner, and then carried her into the dugout. There were some heated exchanges between coaches, a few parents may have had a few things to say, and then eventually we all just went home. I was very touched by the sisterly love Emma displayed, and it only took Sis a few days to recover physically.

Mentally, however, recovery didn't come so easy. Although both girls continued to play ball, Carys was never the same. She loves to run the bases and she loves to play in the field...but she absolutely dreads the batter's box. Her coaches have tried everything to get her over her fear. Literally, everything. Every single pitch, no matter who is throwing it, absolutely terrifies her. She backs out of the box as the ball leaves the pitcher's hand every time. She gets on base occasionally, when a pitcher lacks enough control to throw strikes, but last year she struck out watching more often that not. It is so hard to see that.  I know why she does it; I understand completely, and I can't fix it. 

We had long discussions this year about whether we were going to sign her up for the team. We explained that hitting is a huge part of the game, and she really had to evaluate whether this is the program for her. She's terribly conflicted;  there are so many things she loves about it. But no amount of stealing, sliding, chanting, high-fiving or sunflower-seed spitting could change the fact that she is scared to death of the batter's box. 

Carys had pretty much decided to be done when she found out that a small group of her friends were joining the team for the first time this year. She had an immediate change of heart; her social nature was desperate to have more time with her friends. I did remind her that the program is not cheap; if she was going to do it, she had to commit to learning how to bat all over again. She promised to try; and we decided to say yes and see what happens.

On Tuesday night, she had her first practice that included hitting. She has three coaches this year; Tim and Jeff have been two of her coaches for the last two years. They know all about her special circumstances. Andy is new to our team as a coach, and it just so happened that he was the one taking the girls into the cage for batting practice. I didn't say a word to him, and neither did Carys. She was one of the last ones to try, and she paced around the cages for a good five minutes waiting her turn. I've come to recognize that as her most nervous habit, but I didn't walk over or say anything. I just watched and waited.

Finally, it was her turn. She went into the cage, lined up about a mile away from the plate, and waited for the pitch. 

She swung! Hard! And missed! But who cares, because she swung! 

My throat was thick, my eyes were full of tears. I had the presence of mind to turn on my video camera, because we were going to have to re-live that success all night. I listened to Andy talk her through some batting tips and work on her swing and her stance. He has no idea how much of that she has completely missed because of her inability to get past that day two years ago on a hot dusty field in St. James. She finally started connecting with the ball, and suddenly she was hitting! Actually hitting! 

He can't possibly know what a huge moment that was for her, and for this Mama. I probably looked ridiculous, the only mother who is video-taping my 9 year old at batting practice, for Heaven's sake. I swear I am not one of the crazies. We won't be breaking down film tonight, I promise. But I had to have that moment on camera, I just had to have it. 

When practice was over, she came flying over to me and flung herself into my arms with eyes shining bright as stars in the sky. She said, "Did you see me?" Oh yes, I did. 

Things I Loved Today

1. Emma did Carys' hair in the bathroom this morning. In a kind, helpful, sisterly fashion, and neither of them got mad at each other for any reason, large or small. (This is rare.)

2. We left the house AHEAD of schedule and had time to stop for a morning treat on the way to school. (This is also rare.)

3. When we got to school, Cooper had trouble gathering his things on the way out of the car; Carys went back to lend a hand. (This is so rare I'm not sure it has ever happened before. I think her benevolence could have been a result of Emma's earlier sisterly love.)

4. I got an unsolicited hug from each child before I left them. Cooper came back for seconds.

5. We got to play video games all hour every hour in class today. (If my administrators are reading this, they were completely EDUCATIONAL in nature and I can prove it.)

6. The sun is shining, there's a home softball game after school and our Varsity Cardinals are killing it, so I am super excited to go watch them win another one.

Lucky Number 7: I found a twenty in my jeans pocket that I forgot I had. 

Life is GOOD. 

A Sonnet of Summer

As we prepare for the practice seasons to begin for all our summer activities, I shall pay tribute to Elizabeth Barrett Browning with an ode to my children.

Sonnet of Summer

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and the breadth of my pocketbook

     (As I shell out registration fee after registration fee)

I love thee to the level at which I must tolerate concession stand food

     (And the sunburn on the tops of my feet and my thighs from sitting

       on scorching hot bleachers under a coating of fine dust from the field)

I love thee as freely as you volunteer me for team duties

     (Though I do sharpen my math skills working in the concession stand

       and hone my interpersonal relationships selling raffle tickets

I love thee with the passion I see you display when you're catching, 

       tumbling, running, biking, building, wakeboarding, swimming,

       tubing, playing, LIVING

I love thee in the stillness of the night 

     (While you sleep the deepest sleep and dream of tomorrow's 

       adventures and I ponder how we will pay for their privilege

       or find the hours in the day to attend them)

I love thee with a love that transcends the small things like money and time

     (Which you will fully comprehend someday when you raise children

       of your own)

I love thee with the breath, smiles, and tears of all my life, and; God willing,

I shall but love thee even better when we win the lottery and I can quit my job

       and follow you to the ends of the Earth 

       lawn chair under my arm, 

       water bottle in my hand

       sunflower seeds in my bag

       visor on my head

       love in my heart.

I Have A Question

Remember the days when you could ask your child a simple question and get a simple response? Remember when conversations were delightful ways to develop bonds between family members? Ah, those were the days.

Parent-child questioning and civilized discourse in our household has recently been replaced by impassioned argument, faulty logic and unsupported rhetoric. It seems there is no easy answer to any question anymore: some questions have no answers and some are answered with simply a vacant stare or casual eye-roll. My kids are getting really good at constructing weakly supported responses and employing poor reasoning skills in answering me. I look forward to discovering how my children will one day put these skills into some useful endeavor, since they are becoming so good at it. Let's recap the week so far:

Who ate the marshmallows out of the Marshmallow Mateys and left only cereal? (No one, apparently; the manufacturer has cleverly packaged the cereal so that the last 1/3 of the bag doesn't actually contain marshmallows at all.)

Whose Kindle is on Mom's charger? (Since both Kindles are identical and we can't discover their identities until they have been recharged and turned on, we will shout loud accusations at each other in the meantime.) Update: Carys' Kindle. She swears she didn't do it despite forensic evidence to the contrary. Either way, Mom is unplugging it because she NEEDS her charger.

Where are the actual chargers for the Kindles? (*simultaneous shrugging*)

Who left their bike outside in the rain? (Everyone, but they cannot be faulted for this because Mom said come in to dinner NOW and they didn't want to disappoint her by taking too long to make it to the supper table.)

Why is Cooper's bed broken? (He "fell" on it. In just one corner. With enough force to rip the nails out of the footboard. It was an accidental fall, he DID NOT JUMP ON IT.)

Who has homework tonight? (*chirping crickets*)

Why are there candy wrappers from Easter baskets stuffed between the couch cushions? (Cooper says Carys did it, Carys says Emma did it, Emma says Cooper did it, Mom says hand over the rest of your candy right now, all three of you.)

Where are all the bath towels? (In closets, drawers, under beds and in the hamper in the upstairs bathroom, but absolutely no one put them there.)

Whose cup of dirty paint-water is sitting on the bathroom sink with  paintbrushes in it? (Cooper's. He can't wash out the brushes. He just can't. Because he can't. Because he CAN'T. Go ahead and throw them away. He's done with them. The green one is already hard and crusty.)

Who left the sand bucket out on the beach? (Carys.) 

Who is going to go out and get it? (Not Carys, because even though she was the last to play with it, she didn't get it out of the garage, Cooper did, so he should go and get it and also she isn't wearing any shoes. And not Cooper because even though he got it out, he was not the last person to play with it, so he is not going outside after dark to pick it up and also he is eating right now. And not Emma because she wasn't even outside after school and anyway, she is sick and tired of picking up after the little kids all the time and also she does have homework, as she suddenly remembers.) 

I used to be fairly well-versed in public discourse, but my children are my kryptonite; I find myself resorting to sweeping generalizations and slippery-slope mentality as I attempt to find answers to my questions. "I don't care whose fault it is. I don't care who did it, or when they did it or how they did it or why. I don't care. Fix it. I don't care WHO fixes it. SOMEBODY FIX IT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD."

The only question I can ever ask safely:

Who wants ice cream? (The Dairy Freeze opens this weekend! Hallelujah!)

Trades

When we came home from school yesterday, it was 50 degrees, sunny, and undeniably "outside weather." My kids couldn't throw their backpacks in the hall closet fast enough; in approximately 8 seconds they had unearthed softballs and gloves, pulled bikes out of the garage and shed their jackets to get a little sunshine on their arms and faces. As I followed them into the house, I stepped over a trail of bags, socks, shoes, and coats that were strung out from front door to back door. The softball bags were unzipped and catcher's gear, eye black, face guards and too-small mitts were spilling out of the hallway closet. Cooper had abandoned his Kindle and his Pokemon deck on the downstairs table and was already wheeling his bike up the back sidewalk and heading for the road.

Thus presented adjustment #227 to town living; we used to have 6 acres of land for the kids to explore with wild abandon. It only took 6 softball throws from pitcher to catcher before a loose ball made its way to the neighbor's fence and we had to suggest to the girls that they would maybe need to wait until we could get over to the diamonds to practice. Cooper made a dozen trips back and forth in the street and then the shine of riding seemed to wear off.

There was no trampoline to bounce on, there were no trees to climb. There was no open field where they could hit balls and no four-wheeler to take on laps around the grove. Soon I had three kids wandering listlessly around the yard looking increasingly disgruntled. Fortunately, Aaron pulled up right then; I was putting on my walking shoes for a trip around the lake and he suggested to the kids that they get their bike tires all pumped up so they could come along.

I warned them; I'd already mapped out a 3-mile walk, and had just recently added some little wrinkles to the route to include some hills and stretch it to 3.5. Everyone insisted they were up for it, so we set off, Aaron included. They probably covered twice the distance I did; they would ride ahead, turn around and ride back, and then ride ahead again. Aaron enjoyed the trip more than anyone, I think, doing wheelies and jumping up and down curbs with his bike and generally being a bad influence.

All was well until the halfway point. We'd only done two hills of any consequence when we rounded a corner and Cooper saw what was coming up next. I let Aaron do all the persuading, but Coop's mood was definitely darkening as he got off the bike and pushed it up the next hill. Luckily, just then we stumbled upon one of Fairmont's charming sidewalk libraries. Two years ago, one Fairmont family put up the "Little Free Library" on the sidewalk in front of their house and filled it up with books to share. Since then, more and more of these are popping up all over the place. My kids hadn't seen one yet, and this was the highlight of the day. All three pored over the choices trying to figure out which one to borrow.

The distraction was charming and necessary, but there was still a good mile and a half to go before we were home and poor Cooper's little legs were just burning. He complained loudly every single pedal rotation for the next 11 blocks before all of us told him to pipe down in varying degrees of volume and frustration. We finally made it to our street and his relief was palpable. But like the kick a runner finds at the end of the race, he mustered the strength to surge ahead and race to the house. He dropped the bike in the yard, went immediately to the kitchen for a drink and then collapsed for the rest of the night on the upstairs couch. I'm not sure how often he'll be joining me in the future; in just a couple more months the lake will be warm enough to wade in and he'll have a new set of distractions. I think that Carys is going to be a regular; the bike ride didn't even faze her.

All told, I guess it's nice to have replacements for the things we miss about the farm. It makes me feel less like I lost something and more like I made a trade. One with a fantastic view, and 80 feet of sandy beach, I keep reminding myself. When summer comes and the Fairmont lakes fill up with boats and we have company pulling up to the beach whenever they want to, and we have the fire pit going 5 nights a week and the only thing we bother to cook on is the outdoor grill...I just may find that this is the best trade we've made so far.

Restoration

"I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul." ~Twelfth Night

Over the past few years, I've been watering the seeds of discontent in my soul with the repetitious drum of daily life. I thought a move to town would be enough to stir things up and renew my sense of self; I think instead it just added to my stress and strained the already tenuous grasp I have on my sanity. The whole move, while a sound practical decision, may have been a nothing more than an effort to shake me loose from the routine of "Real Life." I think about how often we use that strategy to breathe new life into ourselves; when we get a new outfit, or a new hair color, or a new vehicle or a new house, we feel for a moment like we are actually new people. I've used all of the above to re-energize my psyche to varying degrees over the years, though they never really last very long. It's funny, do we actually think that a change of scenery will awaken what is lying dormant in us and suddenly bring us forward into the glow of enlightenment? Swapping material goods has no lasting effect on what is essentially a part of who we are and what we do, and what ignites the passions for living that simmer below our surface. 

What are we searching for, anyway? When I feel restless and uneasy and stale with the humdrum of daily living, I ask myself: what is it that I'm looking for? And often, I don't have an answer. I want health and happiness for my kids and that's pretty much it - anything else seems selfish and self-serving somehow.  So we trudge along, day in and day out, and shine bright lights on the ordinary moments that make a regular day seem special - an unexpected favor, a well-placed compliment, or ice cream at midnight on the back step as you look out on the lake and ponder how the heck you got here. (I'm not saying I've ever done that - that's purely for illustration.)

But yesterday. Yesterday, magic happened, and for once I was paying attention. Yesterday, I blew the dust off my copy of Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' and introduced it to my 8th graders. I used to teach this, all the way back in the early Colorado days, circa 2000-2006. I have loved Shakespeare since Bernie Brohaugh at UWRF let me pass his class on the first try. (That was NOT easy to do, people.) I had a revolving curriculum in Colorado that let me teach whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and I brought the Bard to every class I ever taught. We had the best times, translating the language, performing the scenes, and illustrating his imagery.

When I got hired at Fairmont, however, there was a set curriculum with a clear map and plan, and Shakespeare is a 9-12 content topic. I knew I had been missing him a little, but I had no idea how much. This year, my department put the stamp of approval on adding a little taste of Shakespeare to the 8th grade curriculum and I was able to choose how I wanted to do it. So of course, I brought out the long-forgotten files on Shakespearean insults. I found the cartoon panels on how to follow the play-within-a-play, and I resurrected Puck, in all his irreverent glory, to the extreme delight of my classes. I knew they would love it; I did not know what effect it would have on me.

Approximately 6 lines into the play, I realized I was reading aloud from memory - reciting words that had lain waiting in the darker corners of my memory. I felt a brightness in my eyes, and energy in my words that I hadn't felt in ages. I taught for four hours in a row before a break, and when I collapsed into my chair I began to grasp the complete and utter change that had taken over my body. I felt energized, renewed. A surge of purpose flooded through me, and I found myself Googling activities and videos and planning future lessons with the vigor of my forgotten youth. 

24 hours later, the energy has not subsided, the spring in my step is still there. I've been thinking deeply about this all day; I wonder sometimes if we too often look outside ourselves for ways to reinvent the passion of our youth. What if the passions of our youth are in fact the keys to keeping us young? What if we do not need a change, but rather a RETURN to something from our past? What if our quest to "become" something new, different, more, is a hollow promise? What if the answer was in us all along? 

I don't mean to minimize the importance of the growing that we all do as we get older; we become wiser, more self-aware. We can view our past with sharp clarity of intent and purpose...and I wouldn't trade that knowledge for anything. But how delightful to discover that I didn't need to chop off my hair, buy a new shirt (or a house?) to find renewal. Mine came from the master storyteller himself, in the pages of a 400 year old story and on the faces of a room full of our future's brightest.

Basketball Reflections

My dad coached basketball nearly all my young life; from a very early age I can remember going to the gym with him and bouncing a ball along the sideline. To this day, the smell of popcorn in a gymnasium does wonderful things for my psyche; it gives me a special kind of adrenaline rush to walk into that environment. I sat behind my dad at games, listened to his words, absorbed the environment. His ball players babysat me, I got to twirl batons at halftimes, mom put yarn pom-poms in my hair so I could match the cheerleaders, and basketball became a routine part of winter life in the Bartscher house.

Sadly, I never connected to the game as a player the way that I could have. I played most of my high school career with varying levels of success. No one would ever accuse me of being especially good at it, but I kept going out for the team mainly because basketball had been so prevalent in my life for so long that it had become a part of the skin I was wearing.

Looking back at the basketball playing memories that have stayed with me, very few of them have anything to do with playing the actual game. I remember that freshman year Coach Cue started me at point guard for our first game of the season. We were in Wells in that dark gym/auditorium and I must have looked shocked because he said, "What's the matter?" I told him that until that moment I had only ever played post. He said, "you probably could have mentioned that before!" But he started me there nonetheless. That year I learned to see the court from the front half of it for the first time. I also remember that I was a real thorn in the poor man's side all season. During a frustrating practice where our team (me) was doing everything wrong and we (I) had to do it over and over again, I leaned against the wall in the gym and inadvertently shut off all the gym lights. I flipped them back on of course, but in Blue Earth's old junior high gym the lights needed time to "warm up." There was tense silence, followed by a deep sigh. It must have taken a supreme amount of control for Coach to dismiss us for the day and only glare at me as I walked by instead of throttling me as I probably deserved.

When senior year rolled around, I'm sorry to say that I decided to stop playing ball. There is a long and complicated reason for that, which I won't elaborate on today. But the short answer is that it had stopped being fun. All the wonderful parts of the sport had become lost for me and I decided I needed to be finished. My dad bore it well; he never pressed me or pushed me to stay. I credit my parents over and over for always being able to see what I needed and set their own feelings aside - there are many examples of that in my life and I feel so lucky for that. I turned in my practice jersey one cold November afternoon and went home after school with an odd sense of detachment.

Coach Cue found me the next morning. He didn't ask me to reconsider - he asked me instead to help him coach the freshman team. I was so surprised - the thought had never occurred to me before. That moment became a pivotal moment in my life. I am certain I would have never looked at a basketball court again after high school were it not for that invitation.

The first time I sat next to him on the bench during a game, he leaned over and discussed coaching decisions with me the entire game. That was the first time I realized how much more there was to the game of basketball than my limited experience as a player had afforded me. I began to see offensive patterns developing, I saw defensive weaknesses, I learned that chemistry on the floor is more important than individual skill. It was like getting a new pair of eyeglasses - I could see the basketball world so much more clearly from the sideline and a whole new passion emerged in me. I found that I could talk basketball with my dad on a completely different level, bringing me even closer to him through coaching than being a player ever could.

I helped Coach Cue for the first time in 1993; I have coached a basketball team every single winter since that year - for 23 years now - and learned something new every single year. When I got to college I looked up the local high school coach and volunteered my services. That opened the door to get a position as a 6th grade traveling coach for a local Wisconsin program. After college I landed back in Blue Earth for a year where Coach Cue hired me back again as his freshman coach. When I moved to Colorado and found my first teaching position, Robert Crowther took me under his wing as the Varsity Assistant Coach. That was especially challenging; Colorado basketball is vastly different from Minnesota basketball. It took me three or four years to get that entirely figured out - especially that trademark match-up zone he so masterfully commanded. Coming back home, I was worried I would have to wait a while to find a place in a program; I shouldn't have been concerned. Between the CER youth programs I do three times a year, the school ball program where I've coached every single level from 7th grade to assistant varsity, and the traveling association programs, I have had my fill of basketball.

I've had some special players over the years, special seasons and important milestones in coaching. For the last three years, I've been especially lucky to coach my own daughter's traveling team for basketball. I was worried about that a little; my dad never coached one of my teams. Each time I reached his level, he swapped positions with another coach in the program. I really really wanted him to coach me - but he always felt that it wouldn't be fair either to me or to the other players. I've been really mindful of that, coaching Emma. I've tried to be as impartial and careful as I can be when it comes to her and the team. I hope I've done well, though there was one embarrassing moment when I jumped up and hollered "Emma Ruth!" at her when she picked up another unnecessary foul. I have to restrain myself from using the middle name anywhere outside of our house.

This team of 18 wonderful girls has been the highlight of these last three years. I've loved watching them develop - I remember when they could barely dribble and walk at the same time and now they can run complex plays and transition the floor almost autonomously. I made a promise to myself and a commitment to their parents that I would care more about their development than I do about their wins. We divide evenly into teams every single week, every girl gets exactly the same opportunity to learn every position and to learn every skill. I've never divided them into A and B teams - the day you tell a girl that she is a "B" player is the day she stops believing she can ever be more than that. I know that time is coming, but I just don't believe in doing that when they are still young and growing and learning.

This philosophy has had so many benefits: they get along with each other on an exceptional level. Believe me, I have coached girls for a LONG time and that is a rare thing. When they show up to every practice and know that I'm going to work them exactly the same, treat them exactly the same, and give every girl exactly the same opportunity, the impulse to compete AGAINST each other is replaced with a drive to compete collaboratively WITH each other - and that's a game-changer. And believe it or not, this whole fairness thing has resulted in wins - both teams win, they win a lot, they come home with lots of hardware and the best part is that I don't have a clear top and a clear bottom. I have lots and lots of good athletes - the higher skilled players set the bar and the lower skilled players strive to meet the expectation - and I don't think they even have any idea that's what's happening.

Next year, however, they will be 7th graders. Their school ball team will divide them, and I have no idea how or what will happen when that happens. I don't know if everyone will stay out, I don't know if anyone will be disappointed or upset with the outcome - I have no control over it. I hope that whatever happens they will look back on these three years as fondly as I do. We've laughed and been silly and been sad and weathered bad refs and terrible fouls and concession stand food together. We have a million pictures of a million beautiful moments and I'm going to treasure them.

I'm currently coaching the 8th grade school ball team, so I will probably get them back in a year or so, for one last hurrah before I send them to the high school program. I feel like I'm handing over my cherished possessions and hoping that the high school receives them with the same love I've poured into them. They will be a fun group to watch - up and comers with skill and purpose and the best sense of teamwork I've seen in a long while. May they be successful, may they stay together, may they love each other, may they continue to work hard and love this game. And may I have the strength to let them go.