The Marion Mom: Baseball Edition

Oh, my goodness, y’all. How do you keep a teenage boy fed and clothed?

I think we hit the jackpot with our teens so far — they’ve all willinglyand happily pitched in to help with managing the house, cooking meals, and tending the baby when both their father and I had major surgeries with significant recovery restrictions within five months of one another and just after the birth of our seventh child.

They rarely sass us.

They comply without tantrum when we point out how inappropriate their clothing choices are. They never complain when we parents stick our noses into their Instagram accounts or their parties (which we make a point to do often!) But my lands, those kids can eat.

My daughter used to take a full loaf of French bread to school as part of her lunch on a daily basis.

My son will eat breakfast, second breakfast, snack, lunch, heavy snack, predinner, dinner, and bedtime snack.

I’m fairly certain there’s a midnight snack in play on occasion, too, but thank the Lord, I’m usually fast asleep by midnight.

The man-child grew armpit hair by age eight, and his manly odor will knock you off your driver’s seat if you’re ever unfortunate enough to suffer an enclosed vehicle with him after baseball practice.

He recently surpassed my height and is gaining heartily on my weight, growing at a rate of about an inch per month over the course of the last school year.

I can’t keep him in pants of sufficient length. By the time I bring them home from the store and he tries them on, they’re already too short.

His feet won’t stop, either.

Not only do they grow by the hour, they’re wide, like his father’s feet.

Not surprisingly, Manchild’s feet outgrew his brand new baseball cleats in about a minute and a half this year. So I dragged my kid all over Memphis looking for red cleats in a wide size eight.

Except by the time he tried them on, he was a ten and a half. (I’m not kidding. I took him to the store wearing size eight shoes, but he couldn’t even get size eight cleats on his feet.) But the store didn’t have 10.5 wide, so we went to the Internet for the win.

Except the Internet persuaded us to buy metal cleats… and slides to accompany them because no public businesses want you wearing: a) metal cleats or b) post-game sock feet.

So, Man-child realized his full baseball uniform potential in March. He looked sharp. He looked intimidating.

He looked like a baseball player. He also smelled like a baseball player, so the Internet also provided a six-pack of spray deodorant that stays in the van for emergencies.

We faithfully attended every single tournament at Snowden Grove in Southaven this year, plus two at Game Day in Cordova, carting those metal cleats to and fro hanging upside down on his bats, protruding from his bag like a manly memento.

The state tournament took place last weekend in the Jackson, Miss. area.

The tournament directors let us know two days beforehand that the 13U infields are turf, and therefore, no metal cleats are Continued on Page 3 MARION MOM (cont.)

you wearing: a) metal cleats or b) post-game sock feet.

So, Man-child realized his full baseball uniform potential in March. He looked sharp. He looked intimidating.

He looked like a baseball player. He also smelled like a baseball player, so the Internet also provided a six-pack of spray deodorant that stays in the van for emergencies.

We faithfully attended every single tournament at Snowden Grove in Southaven this year, plus two at Game Day in Cordova, carting those metal cleats to and fro hanging upside down on his bats, protruding from his bag like a manly memento.

The state tournament took place last weekend in the Jackson, Miss. area. The tournament directors

allowed. In all caps.

NO METAL CLEATS.

Well I’ll tell you what I refused to do. I refused to rush out on a mad shopping trip to find expensive molded rubber cleats in a size wide 10.5 (still?) for one last weekend. You know that kid won’t be wearing the same size next season!

I offered him my husband’s wide black Reebok molded rubber cleats from our college days. Despite a halfsize difference, he accepted them whole-heartedly, being unpretentious and generally good-natured.

When he walked up to the turf fields, his coach roared in laughter. “Those are some old cleats, man!”

he said. “I think I had those exact cleats when I played for the Angels! And that was a loooong time ago!”

I told him that’s what happens to parents when their growing kids need new shoes in every single sport every single year — you don’t have time or money left over to buy yourself new equipment.

His teammates joined in the revel, but it didn’t bother Manchild a bit.

What did bother him, however, was the searing heat caused by the black shoe leather on the blazing hot black rubber pellets that create turf.

The kid switched to his sneakers with glee after a 3 p.m. game hit 100 degrees with a heat advisory nearing 120. After the boys lost out in the second round, we hauled it to Whataburger for one final hurrah that lasted until midnight.

That baseball team ate burgers, fries, fried pies, milkshakes, cupcakes, onion rings, more fries, more cupcakes, and a thousand packets of ketchup.

I think we left the manager just a little dazed.

I’ve learned to keep snacks on hand, and yes, a loaf of bread counts as a snack; that sometimes giving a kid a $10 and sending him to Wendy’s on his bike is easier than keeping prepped meals available at all times. I’ve accepted that sometimes, four bowls of cereal will have to tide them over until dinner, and I buy two gallons of milk twice a week. I cherish a good buffet. I will never stop loving the Internet for frequently sending clothes, shoes, and deodorant to my front door to save me the misery of shopping with seven kids.

I’m keeping those metal cleats though, if for nothing else, the amusement of passing down “some old cleats” to Manchild’s own son and reminiscing this inside joke, this team, and this experience.

I’m sure there will be a burger and fries involved, too. Probably a fried pie.

Definitely a milkshake.

Dorothy Wilson lives in Marion with her husband Chris as they enjoy all the adventures their seven children provide. This column originally appeared in the June 2019 edition of the Marion Ledger.