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Thanks mom (s)

POSTED May 12, 2012
BY Rick Wilson
Twitter: @scribewilson

                                                   Thanks mom (s)

            THOMASTON – It isn’t easy being a sports mom. As we salute our mothers this weekend thoughts of what my mother went through have whizzed through the mind as fast as the years have come off of the calendar.

            We burned the garage down. We set the roof to the house smoldering. We put out more windows than a sonic blast. We hit enough whiffle balls, golf balls and all kind of balls in the neighbor’s yard to nearly earn at trip to Judge Judy’s place of business.

            We dug up the yard, we dented cars, we put out enough windows to keep the local glass czars of Plymouth Glass in business and we even got blamed (unfairly I might add) for stealing a whiffle ball from a neighbor’s hourse.

This in addition to all the normal duties that go along with the game – rides to and from, up and down, here and there. The equipment expense to stay in style, the wash and more wash, the highs and lows of success and failure. Yeh, being a sports mom, was no picnic.

            Yet, mom hung with us. Oh, we took our lumps. `Go to your room,’ `you’re grounded,’ and `you’re paying for that’ were familiar refrains. Yet, mom never discouraged. She had four athletes in the family and she saw value in what was going on. There was no push to find something else to do like playing the trombone or being a scout, although there was nothing wrong with that. It just wasn’t us.

            Let me just stop here and note that despite the above references we weren’t juvenile delinquents by any means. Just active youngsters. Okay, maybe overactive sometimes with powerful imaginations, but harmless most of the time.   

            She saw the value down the road. It kept us off the streets, taught us values and made us friends and memories for a lifetime. She knew there was good in our endeavors with our merry band of friends.

            Maybe a few explanations are in order, however. As for the garage, it was our clubhouse. Didn’t matter the season, it housed our sporting dreams. Admittedly, it would share time with our party house later on taking on a Philmore West and Studio 54 ambiance. We had furniture, rugs, a stove, a bar.  Still its roots were in the sporting world. It even housed an indoor basketball hoop (a lampshade nailed to a paneled wall.

            It all went up in smoke one inglorious Thanksgiving Eve and to this day we fell there were some nefarious actions by an unhappy neighbor. But still. Smoldering rubble on Thanksgiving Day didn’t exactly make for a delectable turkey.

            As for the smoldering roof, that was just an example of superb imagination and less than superb electrical techniques or when you get right down to it, common sense. We played a ton of whiffle ball in the back yard and decided we wanted to play night ball.

            So we found a couple of the most powerful spotlights available (they kind they use to light up the Empire State Building I think), secured them on the roof and plugged them in the house. It was great. You could see our field from Jupiter.

            About the third inning I noticed a stream of smoke coming off of the roof and it wasn’t from the hot dog vendor’s weenies. The tar shingles were starting to melt and burn. So ended the one and only night game in the park’s history.

            There was always a new game and new idea in the yard. Sometimes the brain cell count was rather juvenile, however.

            I’ve always thought of my mom as an elegant lady. She just turned 80 and looks 20 years younger. She carries the badges of age that are inescapable. Breathing isn’t always easy. Hearing comes and goes, the legs don’t want to take her as far as they once did. Yet, there has always been a classy air that is timeless.

            And mom has maintained it through the years of being a sports mom. There is nothing elegant about that job. It is a job that demands a good washer and dryer, a good insurance policy for the inevitable injuries, a massive pair of shoulders for the ups and downs in a roller coaster world, the patience of Mother Theresa, a good car for the pick-ups and drop-offs and a substantial checkbook although in my day we seemed more intent on the game instead of the equipment needed to play it.

            The sports world brings it challenges and mom handled them all, the good, the bad and the ugly. And there was plenty of each.

            A sporting life is a blue collar life. It is hard work and sweat. Like most things in life, my mom has handled it elegantly. Thanks and happy Mother’s Day Mom.  

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