Carpool Candy: A League of Our Own

Just when I thought baseball season was officially over, they sucked me back in—like Michael Corleone in Godfather III. My ten-year-old son Jacob's team won their summer league championship, and I thought we could finally pack up the mitts and head to the beach.

But the sports gods had other plans for me.

A mother on our team suggested a moms vs. sons softball game. I thought it was a terrible idea. Why would I subject myself to such public indignity? I had not played in almost 20 years, and I was no major leaguer back then.

Then the lobbying began.

My husband and three sons (ages 10, 7 and 4) started an aggressive campaign to get me to forgo the sun and sand of the Jersey Shore for the sun and sand of Meadowlands field. The moms would not let up either. All but two were on deck. There were cheerful emails flying around about the potential enjoyment of beating our sons.

Winning was not likely, but some moms thought a little intimidation would go a long way: You want to eat dinner tonight?! I can take that Wii away at any time buster! And so it went for a week leading up to the game.

I eventually gave in. I was certain we would lose, and feared humiliation. But it did sound like fun, and I didn't want to go down as a stick in the mud. The boys' coach, Chris Coreschi, agreed to coach the mothers and we became Chris's Angels.

We had two practices the week before the big game. During the first, we moms were a bit giddy as we took the field and started throwing the ball around. I discovered my skills weren't so shabby. I could throw and catch (not every time, but still) and made contact with the ball more often than not at bat. But an unfortunate pattern began to emerge. One of the moms fell on her knee while running the bases. She hobbled off the field to get some ice and within days was in a full leg brace and crutches. One fallen Angel.

The next flurry of emails was full of advice about Icy Hot and ibuprofen, and the rhetoric on the son slaughtering was significantly toned down. During the second practice, at least three ladies limped onto the field, complaining of sore quads, groins and hamstrings. But moms are troopers, so we played through the pain. We had come this far and talked too much smack to give up now.

When game time arrived, I was nervous. Sure it was about fun, but I didn't want to look completely ridiculous in a diamond defeat. I donned my red "Chris's Angels" t-shirt and pulled my ponytail through my cap. Chris was calling for us on the field for pre-game warm up and I was still in the dugout putting on lip gloss. If I was going to lose, at least I was going to do my best to look pretty.  

I think the boys assumed we'd strike out more but luckily we had a neutral dad pitching so we had a fighting chance at hits. There were a few "Bad News Bears" moments in the field, but that's to be expected when half the moms couldn't run for the ball and the other half had trouble catching. All in all, it was not bad for a bunch of old broads.

We hoped the change from baseball to softball would hinder the boys but were woefully mistaken. All their skills were on display. Taking no pity on the women that gave them life, they played hard and won handily. I think we stopped at the top of the fifth inning with a score of 15-5. I was just grateful it wasn't a blow out and that I walked away unscathed. 

I can't say the same for many of my teammates who—by the third inning—were having kids run the bases for them when they got up to bat. The dads looked on and tried not to laugh. I'd like to think the injuries were from moving muscles we don't normally use. That or the fact that we're old.

It did give us new respect for our sons. Although eager to participate, I was ultimately afraid of the ball whenever it came my way. The batter's box seemed much bigger and more frightening from inside. I do a 5-mile run twice a week but running the bases was exhausting, maybe because of all the starting and stopping. Bottom line: baseball is a lot harder than it looks.

Despite the humbling hurting, the game was a hoot. The moms decided we'd like to challenge the boys again, but start practicing earlier in the season to make sure we're ready.

So look out Villagers. Mama's coming back next year and she's looking to win.