Tag Archives: baseball

When Doing Our Best Feels Like Failure…

Baseball-player-pitching--700x386

For those of you who feel like your best falls short sometimes…here’s some permission to GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK!  (special permission for mothers of college bound seniors, in the throes of athletic recruitment!)

“Mom.  I’ve decided that I want to play baseball in college.  It’s my dream.”

This came out of my rising senior son’s mouth, early this summer, after his first few games with his new Legion baseball team.  This was not the plan.

I am a planner ahead-er.  Especially when it comes to my children.  So throughout my son’s high school career, I’ve gently teased out ideas of what college might look like for him.  What his dream would be.  The long and short of it was this:  A big school with great sports teams, near a city, with a lot of diversity and opportunity, and a strong Business School.  We knew he wasn’t D1 baseball material, and so playing ball at a large university wasn’t really on the map, even though I know how much he’s loved the game, all the way back to T-ball, buck teeth, and a scrappy little mop of blonde hair.

It was time for him to spread his wings and see what else there was out there to love.  Plus, he’s been raised in a small mountain community in NW Montana, unlike the Chicago of my youth, and the New York city of his father’s.  We were excited for him to start playing the field of life, not just the field of and around the baseball diamond.

“Just think—you’ll have a regular spring, for once.  You’ll have extra time to be able to expand academically into new terrain, and enjoy what college life has to offer.”  He seemed copacetic.  Relieved almost.  And frankly, it was a relief for me too– I’ve logged a lot of hours on those baseball bleachers, and he’s logged a lot of hours on that diamond and in those dug-outs.  It would be a good step for us all.  Because how could I pass up being in those bleachers as much as possible, even if it meant a long road trip.  Heck, in Montana, we’re used to those—all for the love of ball.  I was privately happy to put it in the rearview mirror.13325635_10153431308556266_4887280178150671123_n

And then that day in June…  “Mom, I love this sport.  I love the kids who play this sport.  I’m good at it.  I want to play in college.  I don’t care if I don’t have as much of a social life.  My team will be my social life.  I don’t care if it’s not some big university near a city.  I’ll play D3.  I just want to play baseball.”  Out of the mouths of not-so-babes.

I’m a mother.  Far be it from me to stand in the way of my child’s dreams.  And what he said was all true.  He’s a talented leftie pitcher, and a great first-baseman, and a spirited team member.  He never ever complains about any of it.  He takes it as the Hero’s Journey that baseball is:  The call to leave home, go out in the world, and come back, more the wise, despite some scrapes and losses along the way.  As of this June, he just wants “to play baseball.”  I remembered a seventeen-year old girl who just wanted “to be an artist.”  So I Googled D3 baseball colleges:  Small.  Liberal Arts.  No Business major.  Mostly rural.  And very…very expensive.  Plus, they don’t offer athletic scholarships.  Huh.

I quickly learned that on top of it all, the kids who get recruited for D3 sports, have been going to recruitment camps for years.  They’re on the coaches’ radars.  They know all about scholarships and are in touch with Financial Aid departments.  They have their lists in place and have toured campuses.  They’ve met with Admissions people.  Just when, I’m not sure.  Surely not in the summer.  They’re the Boys of Summer– they’re playing baseball every second of every day—eighty-eight games!  And if they play other sports, not then either.  AND, the cherry on top of the top:  it all has to be done Early Decision or Early Action…by…drum roll:  November 1st!  That’s in a matter of months!  And the cherry atop the cherry on top:  my son is the quarterback of the football team.  Just when are we supposed to visit campuses?  If he misses a practice, he misses the Friday game.  How does one fly from Montana to Pennsylvania, and upstate New York, and Ohio, and Minnesota, and Oregon, have a proper visit during the school week, and make everybody happy?  Never mind pay for it all?

We were late to the party.  Very late.

This is not my style.  Usually…I’m throwing the dang party.  How could this have happened?  How could I not have at least seen the potential of this coming our way and had a back-up plan in place?  How could I make my son proud, and make it through this without guilt, shame, the feeling of less-than, the feeling of failing him?  I hadn’t been able to save the marriage from ending, or keep his father from moving thousands of miles away, or his friends from moving, or his sister from taking an internship far from home this summer.  I hadn’t been able to provide a house full of action and fun like it used to be.  In fact, in the last five years, I’ve been working all the time.  Leaving him home alone.  Leaving him to cook his meals and fend for himself– the opposite of what I would ever have opted for as the mother to my son.  I was not going to fail him this time.  No way.

And so it began.  The baptism-by-fire SAT sign up and tutoring, the college essay boot camp, the virtual college advisor meetings, the recruitment videos and the camps in Long Island and Oregon, the Common Application.  I’ll save you the stress of it all, and me the blood-pressure spike, but suffice it to say that on top of my full-time job leading writing retreats in Montana, and a book deadline for a novel I’ve been working on for a few years, as a single mother, I was now scrambling to put together a schedule that would be do-able.  For all of us.  Not perfect.  But possible.  And all before November 1st.  Deep breath. 13450882_10153462757811266_6947302589785351012_n

But the breathing is shallow at best.

I am smack dab in the throes of it right now.  And here’s what I’ve learned:  You can’t be perfect.  Even with the best of intentions, as a mother…you’re just going to fall short sometimes.  Even with your heart and soul and mind as sharp and on it as possible, there are times as a mother of a college-bound child when you are going to look around and say, How did I get here?  I didn’t mean for this to happen.  I was trying so hard.  I was doing my best.  And my best…well, it just isn’t good enough.  And you’ll look around at the other mothers, and somehow, they are at the party that you didn’t even know existed.  They are seasoned party-goers, with gracious hostess gifts, and the perfect, in this case, little red-white-and-blue jersey, and ball cap, with the proverbial stadium seat sporting their son’s soon-to-be alma mater’s mascot.

And you’ll feel small, or wrong, or just plain bad.  And you’ll find yourself crying in bed in the early hours, or lying in the dark with heart palpitations, and the feeling of true hopelessness, desperation even.  You were the one that dropped him off on his first day at Montessori with a backpack full of black-eyed Susans for his teacher, with a loving note.  You were the one who lay in bed with him every night reading him Ferdinand, and Mike Mulligan, and Dr. Seuss, who sang him Lullaby, and played This Little Piggy, and taught him how to make homemade ice cream.  You were the one who drove over mountain passes for any number of baseball and football games—and that one time when he missed the bus, and you drove six hours to drop him off at camp, and turned around and drove six hours back.  You were that mother, yes you were.  You promised him you’d give him the very best of you.  And here you are failing him in his, to date, biggest opportunity, his biggest dream.  Because…what if he doesn’t get that scholarship money, and what if you can’t swing it to get him to more than three of those schools so he doesn’t even know where he wants to apply early, and what if what if what if…well, what if his “dream” doesn’t come true?

I know the answer.  He’ll be okay.  We will all be okay.  First world problems.  But still…this is one of the last things we can do for our kids—shepherd them into their next chapter, and the first one far from home.  We’ll see what happens in November.  We’ll see if he’ll get that golden ticket, and he’ll open that letter and smile, and nod, and fold into my arms in happiness and relief.  We’ll see if we get that moment of, “We did this.  This dream is going to come true!”  But even if we don’t, I have to believe that regrets are never really teaching tools.  We will always fall short somehow.  We’re mothers.  There is no A+.  There is only the very best we can do.  Even if we are late to the party.  Especially…if we are late to the party.  Because here’s the bottom line:  There is no party.  It’s really, in the end, just the Hero’s Journey, after all.

If you would like to take a break in 2017 and live the writer’s life in the woods of Montana, find community, find your voice, and maybe even find yourself…check out this video and info, and email the Haven Writing Retreat Team asap to set up a phone call! Laura@lauramunsonauthor.com

Now Booking 2018 Haven Writing Retreats!

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(previously published in Grown and Flown)

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Summer Rules: Stop. Sit. Watch.

bench

I sent my son off to baseball recruitment camp yesterday morning.  In a matter of months, I’ll know where he’s going to be spending the next four years.  In one year I’ll be attending two graduations:  My daughter from college, my son from high school, both of them onto the next giant step of their lives.  And me too.  I suspect I’ll be this woman that I wrote about in 2014, on park benches everywhere.  That’s my goal.  May this inspire you to “let the parade pass you by.” 

When is the last time you sat on a bench in your home town?  It’s summertime here in Whitefish, Montana, so that means there are tourists enjoying the view from our town benches everywhere I look—taking a break from the overwhelm of our nearby Glacier National Park, our stunning lakes and rivers, and miles of pristine wilderness.  I’ve lived in Whitefish for twenty years and with our long, dark Montana winters, summer is my biggest bully, beckoning me to get on my horse, put on my hiking shoes, pack up the camping gear, grab the huckleberry bucket, paddleboard, canoe…and get after it, as we say around here.  And “it” is a high calling with vast reward.  I have been good at “it.”  Not this summer. 

This summer everyone in my family is running in a different direction.  Perhaps you can relate.  My daughter is leaving for her first year in college in a matter of weeks, baby-sitting 24/7 to help pay for her expenses (we should all be $baby-sitters$ these days!)  My high-school bound son has been up to his ears in baseball— his 13 year old All Star team not only winning State, but last weekend, Regionals!  (They went up against teams from all over the Pacific Northwest who had hundreds try out for those coveted spots.  They had twelve.  Small town miracles do happen!)  Personally, when I’m not watching baseball games or filling out college forms, I have been under a deadline for a novel I’ve spent the last few years writing.  (Deadline was yesterday.  Made it—phew!)   In other words, I haven’t stopped to enjoy summer.  Haven’t seen my horse.  Haven’t taken one hike.  Went out on Whitefish Lake once thanks to a friend with a boat who took “pity” on me when she saw my pasty skin.  Got some fresh huckleberries from a friend and her secret huckleberry patch, which I guiltily used in our pancakes the next morning.  It felt like cheating.  Most of all, I haven’t felt part of my community.  And I miss it.  I need to sit in it and just be.WF

So yesterday, when our town threw a parade for our Whitefish All Star champs, I got there early to make sure I captured it all on camera and cheered alongside the fire truck holding those glowing young men.  I was all ready to go, expecting the fire truck to round the bend at exactly 5:00 as scheduled in our town newspaper, but there was no parade to be seen.  I waited, checking my camera to make sure I had remembered the memory card and a charged battery—(I have an uncommon knack for forgetting both in the most photogenic moments), texting my son to find out what was going on.  Whitefish loves its parades.  I got a text back.  Schedule change.  Not til 6:00.  I had an hour.

Normally, I would think, “Ok— what can I check off my list?  What mail needs to be sent?  What errand can I run?  Do I have anything at the dry-cleaners?  But the stores were closed and my car was parked far away…and there was the nicest empty bench on the street corner in the shade.  And I thought—what the heck.  Why don’t you just sit down.  Take a load off.  People watch.  And BE.  See what other people see when they sit on our town benches.  The Burlington Northern railroad running through, the azure skies and popcorn clouds.  The emerald green ski runs on the forest green mountain.  The children skipping alongside their carefree vacation-minded parents.  The older people licking ice cream cones and gazing into shop windows I race past every day, really taking it all in– commenting on the western art.  “Oh, that’s lovely.”  And moving on, slowly, on the shady side of the street. 

Summer can be slow.  The “it” can be something quiet.  Meditative.  Simple, with no proof– not even a photograph.  I decided yesterday, sitting on that bench, that I’m going to become a bench dweller.  I’m going to make a practice of sitting on benches, especially in my home town.  I want to see the wonder of what Whitefish looks like to people who are seeing it for the first time.  I want to say, “Hello” to strangers, and locals too, and give benign smiles that have nothing to do with team sports or college entrance or work or who are the best teachers, or who are you going to vote for, or even what’s in the local paper.  I just want to Be in my town.  Take a load off.  Sit a spell. 

When those fire trucks came around the bend, I grabbed my camera, ready to shoot in rapid fire, to share on Facebook and with the paper and everybody else for that matter.  But instead, I stood up, and waved, smiling to my son and his team, took one picture, jogging alongside them for a few steps to show my support.  But then I stopped and watched, smiling and proud, as the truck made its way down Central Ave.  And I sat back down on the bench.  Being a parade chaser is too exhausting.  Sometimes it’s better to let the parade pass by.  There will be more parades.  Most of life is about all the stuff that lives between our heightened moments.  That’s the “it” I’m going to start getting after.  On little benches everywhere.  I invite you to do the same in our last weeks of summer.

champs

If you would like to take a break this fall and live the writer’s life in the woods of Montana, find community, find your voice, and maybe even find yourself…check out this video and info, and email the Haven Writing Retreat Team asap to set up a phone call!

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***We reached our goal and our baseball family is leaving for the Babe Ruth U-13 World Series in Virginia today!  Thanks to all of you who helped make it possible!

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Bullies Posing as Adults (coming to a neighborhood near you…)


as seen in the Huffington Post
If you ask a kid these days what’s the number one issue they hear about in school, they’ll usually say, “bullying.” Then they might follow it with the school acronym. Around here it’s: P.R.I.D.E. (personal responsibility is a daily expectation.) It’s spoken over the PA by the principal, the whole school shaking with his thunderous, authoritative, almost militaristic voice. He speaks, the kids listen. The parents are appreciative. They don’t remember this even being on the charts in their school systems growing up. In fact, if we were bullied, we were taught to hide it. We’d done something to deserve it. Shame on us. These days, it seems like schools have an awareness toward interpersonal relations that is far more evolved than what it was not so long ago. Think of all the playground scenes from movies of yore with kids picking on each other, huge brawls breaking out, a school marm sending the wrong kid home with his book-bag to his Grapes of Wrath homefront, a rabid dog, a father on the front porch with a bottle of moonshine. Heck, even Opey got bullied on the Andy Griffith Show. In those days you hid it, or you got even. Which meant you probably got sent home again.

Now the kids are taught to report bullying as if they’ve witnessed a drug deal. There are serious repercussions. They even have bullying classes, wherein they’re taught to take a stand for themselves by saying, “That’s not appropriate,” then tell a teacher. They’re taught to diminish it by using humor, “Wow– THAT felt really good. Thanks for the compliment,” and then tell a teacher. Or ignore it, and then tell a teacher.

I recently taught a fifth grade class and added this to the bullying issue: “Just remember,” I said, “even if someone says something really mean, no one can actually make you mad or cry or feel guilty. Our emotions are always our choice. There’s no such thing as an emotional victim. Not that pain isn’t real. And if someone hits you, well that’s another story. You can’t control a bloody nose. But emotionally, it’s different.”

I’ve been crossing the country sharing this message with people who often seem like this is new news. I like to say, “What if someone told you that emotions are your choice when you were ten years old? Wouldn’t you have lived your life differently?” The heads nod.

Webster’s defines a victim as such:
n. 1. A living being sacrificed to some deity, or in the performance of a religious rite; a creature immolated, or made an offering of.

2. A person or thing destroyed or sacrificed in the pursuit of an object, or in gratification of a passion; as, a victim to jealousy, lust, or ambition.

3. A person or living creature destroyed by, or suffering grievous injury from, another, from fortune or from accident; as, the victim of a defaulter; the victim of a railroad accident.

So nowhere does ol’ Noah talk about choice. He seems to imply that “grievous injury” is both emotional and physical, as in being slain on an altar, or being jealous, lustful, ambitious. But nowhere does this definition come with choice. I’d like to take a look at this for a moment. Here’s the context:

Recently, I was at a baseball game. The coaches were adults. The players were in middle school. In this sporting system, it is up to the coaches of the opposing team to name the MVP for their competing team. I think this is a grand idea. What a good way to show the players that we can be opposing forces and also supportive at the end of the competition. That people can be your champion even if they are “the enemy” because there’s no REAL enemy in sports. It’s a game. The human spirit is above such small-mindedness. The human spirit is ultimately about the positive, yes? Right? Right?

And when the coach from the other team announced the home team’s MVP, he said, knowing full well that all the players were boys, “Let’s give it to the girl on first base.” And all the kids from both teams laughed and some people in the stands too, and that kid, whose hair tis true, was a bit on the longish surfer side of things, went to receive his MVP medal with a look of dismay and embarrassment in his face.

This is a kid who lets things like this roll right off him. Who makes a point to see the glass half full. Who happens to like his hair a little long. But if it was a rule to have it short, he’d happily comply. He’s not trying to make a point, after all. It’s just a matter of preference. It’s a free country, isn’t it? But that look of dismay came from real pain.  Because when you’re a kid, and an ADULT slams you one, it’s confusing.  You didn’t know that adults could be bullies.  That’s not being spoken over the school PA system…

Think about it:  how is this different than saying, “Give it to the fat kid on first base.” Or the “faggot.” And what if the kid ran more on the sensitive side of things? What then?

The next day, the kid came to his game with short hair. I was sorry for him. I was sorry for the people who laughed. But mostly, I was sorry for that coach. Because he took a situation in which he was given an opportunity to practice grace, to lift up someone who’d done a good job, and recognize him even if he was for a time, considered the opposition. He had an opportunity to make the world a better place just then, and be a living example of kindness, positivity, integrity. But not only did he disregard his charge as role model and responsible adult, he gave a gift and took it away at the same time by trumping praise with judgment. Disapproval. And yes, sexism.

He should have been sent to the principal’s office. Instead I’m sending him to the Huffington Post and to my blog. Because in these here hills, and maybe in yours too, adults can act worse than kids. And I think that in that case, kids have every right to apply what they learn in bullying class, and tell a teacher. And that repercussions follow. And with teenage suicide being what it is, that’s what I mean by repercussions. Coach.

Lighten up, you say? It was just a joke? The world can’t always be fair.

No.  I will not lighten up. 

I’ll say this instead: Grow up. Or maybe in a language you might understand better: Man up. Or in the principal’s resounding voice: FOUR LETTERS…P.R.I.D.E.

But most of all, coach, thank you for giving that kid a teaching opportunity– to practice the pure fact that no one can make him feel bad. If he gets his hair cut, well…as unfortunate as it is that he changed his personal preference based on public humilitiation brought on by adult bullying…his emotions around it are still his choice.

Hopefully you’ll remember that the next time someone calls you an a**hole.

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