Exactly When Do You Know It's Time?

When our children were both in elementary school and playing on their own baseball teams, we also had box seats at the local stadium where our AAA minor league baseball team played from early Spring through the end of August or early September. Our box seats were located directly behind third base, which is my favorite location. The kids and I were faithful fans and seldom missed a game. Mr. Snooty would come sometimes, but he always went home early so he could get some work done. The kids and I would always stay until the bitter end, whether our team won or lost. There were also times we sat through foul weather, until they *called* the game.


We got to know many of the players and the coaches, and I, of course, yelled a lot at the Umpire for being the idiot he proved himself to be. Let me just say that I truly love the game. I yelled for my team. Over everything. I loved those guys! Even though the roster of players changed from year to year, I knew all the players' names and statistics and kept up to date as they changed, for good or bad.


If someone asked me to watch a game on TV, I would quickly decline. It's just not the same as being there and seeing it live. Not the same at all. I loved the smells of the hot dogs, popcorn, burgers and other aromas that wafted up from the food service area. I loved to drink beer and the Beer Man always knew me on a first name basis. When my hand rose into the air, my favorite vendors always accommodated me. I loved standing during the 7th inning stretch and singing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame". I knew everyone around me who occupied the other box seats and we always discussed the plays, blow by blow. I was, alas, a rabid fan and those were wonderful times.

During those days I had a young, newly divorced friend named Allison who would come to join me in our box with her son Gage, as soon as Mr. Snooty left. Gage was precious and at the time he was around three or four years old. Allison was a riot and a total party to be around. I think she even dated a few of the players over those years.

One year, she decided to enter my name to the front office to sing the National Anthem before one of the games. They called me the next week and asked me if I would and I accepted. I love to sing although I am completely untrained (other than choir at boarding school and singing in a rock band when I was in my early twenties, neither of which qualifies as training). Did I mention that it was also to be acapella? Yes, it was. So that I would look good (and thus, feel good) I did my hair to perfection as well as my nails and toenails, in preparation. You know, when you look good, you feel even better. Did I also mention I become a complete nervous wreck when singing before people I don't know? It makes me so nervous that I have to throw up, which I did.

So, Allison and I had agreed to meet with our children at the ballpark an hour early. As we sat in the sweltering heat waiting for my one moment of fame, she happened to glance down at my feet. She asked "Did you have a difficult time with the pedicure today?" I said no and she began to snicker and giggle. Indignant, I asked "Why?" She said "Well, I'm not quite sure you actually got any polish on your toenails." So, I grabbed my foot and held it up as close to my eyes as was possible and to my horror, she was right. It looked as if a child had done my pedicure. Thanks Allison. I really needed that right before my Big Moment.

Luckily, I was able to brush it off and thirty minutes later (after throwing up in the ladies room) I was standing on the field, singing The National Anthem for all it was worth, in front of God and everyone else that was present. I got a standing ovation (Oh, wait! they were standing for the National Anthem) for my singing and it truly was a proud moment for me, crappy pedicure or not.

The next day I went out and purchased my very first pair of bifocals. I knew it was time.