Published: July 01, 2008 01:53 pm            

I am Little Bunny Foo Foo

“We’re going to my kids’ T-ball game,” said Becca, the wife, at a disturbingly early time. (Editor’s note: For newspaper people, “disturbingly early” means “before noon.”)

As it was disturbingly early (11:59 a.m.), I was still groggy. But I was pretty sure our teenage children did not have a T-ball game that Saturday. I thought I should point this out.

“Our children no longer play T-ball,” I mumbled from under the covers.

“My kids from my school,” the wife clarified.

The wife runs a preschool. I do not know these children. I know some of their names. I know when I go to visit the preschool, I see lots of giant heads waddling around on disproportionately small bodies. They look like bobblehead dolls and I constantly fight the urge to bop them on their heads to see if they have springs in their necks.

“Why am I going?” I mumble, daring to poke my head from under the covers and feel the sun coming through the window burn my skin.

“Because T-ball games are soooooo cute,” the wife says with honest-to-goodness glee in her voice.

No, they are not. T-ball games are like watching cats being herded. But the wife has the money I need to get something to eat, so I go.

Because T-ball players can hit the ball only 17 feet, they can pack 47 T-ball games into one soccer field — which, on this Saturday, is what they have done. After we walk through the middle of 22 games without realizing what we are doing, we find the right group of bobbleheads — I mean children — and begin to watch. This is what I see:

One child hits the ball and runs sort of in the direction of first base. Five fielders run for the ball, jump into a no-holds-barred Double Live Gonzo rugby scrum free-for-all bar brawl to get the ball while the other 17 fielders look at myriad things not involved in this particular T-ball game. One player emerges, victoriously, with the ball and lobs it sort of in the direction of first base — where it rests because the first baseperson and the batter are now chasing a butterfly together.

“Yea!” all the fans cheer.

This is repeated numerous times until the 14 coaches declare the game a tie, 97-97.

But there is one player different from the rest, a real standout. His name is Brian. I know this because his nametag says “Brian.”

Brian looks as if he does not know why he is there, nor does he care why he is there.

He does what he is supposed to do, always with the same expression, as if he has only one concern: where’s my snack?

I want to hug Brian and tell him I feel his pain. I also want to bop him on his head.

Rick Hoover is the NewsPress’ managing editor. Telephone 372-5000 extension 201; e-mail rhoover@stwnewspress.com.

        

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