We mothers thought it a grand idea when our husbands asked if we would like to coach our nine-year old sons in this, their final game of the baseball season.

They had won their conference, so this contest didn’t count.  Why we thought this a grand idea is anyone’s guess.  Who in their right mind would ever want to try and corral a bunch of spirited, impulsive pre-adolescents whose parents care a lot more about their children’s success than these miniature athletes do? We did.

After all, we had coached from the grandstands for years, critiquing our husband/coaches.  We moms viewed this as a chance to prove we could do more than just pour Gatorade, bag popcorn in the concession stand, and bang our rock-filled milk bottles to add a little team spirit.

We were naïve not to recognize this as “pay back” for all the times our spouses accused us of second-guessing their fielding decisions during the regular season. Since I had three sons playing and a husband who had played professionally, the other mothers assumed that I knew how to make out a line-up card or give signals from the 3^rd base position.  They were wrong.

Huddling in the dugout, we agreed on one thing: we would be creative.  None of this “best batter bats fourth, fastest runners play outfield, etc.”  We would mix things up a little bit. So, when Toby asked if he could be catcher, we knew the dad-coaches would say something like, “No, because he’s petrified of the ball” or “No, because he can’t catch”—you know, gutless responses. We would switch everyone’s predictable position.  Genius!

And so, Toby played catcher.

Let me rephrase that.  Toby put on the catcher’s gear.  (Even that is more complicated than it appears).

The rest was not pretty.  Poor little guy was just target practice for the pitcher, getting drilled with every pitch.  The fastballs bounced off of every part of him except his glove.  But Toby was loving it. He would chase down every ball he missed and then throw it on two hops somewhere near the pitcher.  It was apparent to all of us coaching moms that he finally felt like “one of the boys.”  We might make lousy managers but we were sure terrific psychologists!

But Toby’s safety was not the only problem. Another issue became apparent in the first inning.  We noticed there was something weird about his catcher’s squat.  Some blob-like thing was bulging from the back of his uniform pant leg just above the knee.

We “coaches” convened for an emergency meeting in the corner of the dugout.

After we dismissed the more disgusting possibilities, we finally realized it was his cup, a plastic device designed to protect the male groin area; somehow Toby’s had slipped from his groin and migrated down the back of his leg.  Our novice catcher seemed clueless that anything was amiss.

Understandably, none of us wanted to be the cup-bearer of such embarrassing news.  This had to be a dad’s job.  We just needed to find a kind, compassionate, sensitive father who would help us out.  Toby’s parents weren’t there, but surely one of the others would lend support.

We could not believe the united front we heard:

“Hey, we’re just fans.  You’re the coaches.  Take charge.”

“Never happened to us—isn’t that amazing?”

“Guess that’s what happens when you move a utility player to a catcher.”

I wanted to say, “Gee!  You guys are a load of laughs. You should start your own comedy club!”  Actually, I’m pretty sure I did say that, and a lot more.

Needless to say, our husbands were not examples of godly men that day. Whatever happened to Mt. 5:7:  “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy”?

Stay tuned next week for what happened next.

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