Favorite Fan

I sneak a peek into the gray concrete dugout. The wandering, welcoming woman wears a polyester hat too far on top of her head. Golden wisps of wavy hair are hidden inside. A clipboard rests on her right arm with a round pencil attached by a string. She stands, smiling at the girl on the bench and hands her a piece of chewing gum from a pack in her left hand. I finish my warm-up tosses and settle in for another inning of work.
I have a favorite fan, and she is my mother. She is no ordinary groupie but one I can actually converse with and get a hug from. As an athlete, I never thought about the fans in the crowd. The only fans that mattered to me were members of my family.
My parents were my Little League coaches when I played softball as a kid. My dad was the X’s and O’s manager and boss, but it was mom who played the role of nurturer. Years later, I ran into the girls I played with on those teams. They still remark about how my mother nursed and bandaged their injured thumb, or how she used to crack jokes to relax them before an at-bat. They don’t remember how many games we lost as a hapless, disgraceful group. Instead, they recall how my parents who treat them to ice cream after pre-season work at the local batting cages. Or, they tell me how nice she was to their little sister in the stands. They overtly applauded her efforts in the kitchen and loved her edible baseball cookies. My teammates never said a bad word about my mother and I think most of them only played because she was the unofficial team mother.
I loved softball so much and my parents both embraced my passion by becoming involved. We used to talk about every game at the dinner table. I got a kick out of the stories mom would tell and how she would try to come up with solutions to our team’s struggles on the field. My dad would get more frustrated with every loss, although he never lost his patience with the girls on the team. Mom would lighten the mood and always encourage me to keep doing what I was doing. Next to my father, she was my biggest supporter. Had it not been for her, I probably would never have pursued tennis. She bought me my first racquet and taught me how to hit the ball when I was young. I may not have played softball as long as I did if she wasn’t there for every game. She used to show up with the kids she babysat after school and they would all watch me play. Sometimes, the kids’ parents had to pick them up at the ball field because she didn’t want to miss a pitch.
My mom is not crazy about sports. I think she honestly believes Terry Bradshaw, Franco Harris and Joe Green still play for the Steelers. She adores Andre Agassi for some unknown reason (I think just to irk me since I love Pete Sampras).
Mom could care less about who was playing in the World Series but she always watched games if I was playing. It didn’t matter what the weather or how far the travel was, she was there to see me, win or lose. She never criticized me after a loss. If she did, it was only constructive criticism I probably deserved. I think the worst thing she said to me was how my white cotton tennis shorts were too wrinkled. My dad might conclusively comment about a poor swing or how I misjudged a fly. But moms are different in assessing athletic accomplishments. They offer advice in the form of life-long lessons. Dad’s help in fine-tuning my delivery as a pitcher certainly was useful. Mom’s wisdom went beyond the mound. My mom provided guidance without words. This is the same woman who woke up at 5AM before the butter-colored sun. She wrapped newspapers in and drove me around the neighborhood to deliver them in wrapped plastic. Not once did she complain or think twice about helping me. My mom bent over backwards, even for my teammates. She drove a teammate home to an empty house after practice and showed compassion. Mom let my friends sit in the seats in the trunk of our station wagon (this was a big deal because you rode backwards) as we left the field. They acted as if it was their biggest thrill of the day. They used to tell me how cool my mother was and how they wished theirs was as such. For one day, I’d like to honor my favorite fan with the many sports memories I hold of her.

Parting parts: My favorite song about moms: “A Song For Mama”- Boyz II Men