Today was my 11 year old son’s first baseball tournament of the season.
The morning started with him saying he felt sick to his stomach. The look on his face when I told him he’d eat some oatmeal anyway said to me he was probably serious, and it wasn’t just nerves. We continued getting ready to go. He went to his bathroom to try to take care of the cramps. He was moderately successful, but I won’t go into details, for reasons that should be obvious.
10 minutes before we need to leave, he is still complaining about his cramping stomach. I give him some Pepto. His team has only 9 players for this series, so I have to get him right. He goes to the bathroom again. He doesn’t say much when he is finished except that he feels a little better. We get in the car to leave. We are 10 minutes late and have an hour and 15 minute drive.
About 10 minutes into the trip, he starts moaning and curls up into the fetal position. I know my son, and he has very little tolerance for pain, so I pretty much ignore it and keep my foot on the gas. The moaning eventually stops, and he either sleeps or pretends to sleep.
About 50 minutes into the trip, my wife decides the coffee is working on her, so we hit a rest area. I ask my son if he needs to go, and he says no. Pretty much as soon as we get back on the road, he says something to the effect of, “do I have to play today?” I explain that yes, barring major catastrophe, he must play. I asked why he asked, and he begrudgingly informs me that he still needs to relieve the pressure and that he is feeling as if he might throw up. Again, we had just left the rest area. It is not hard to imagine what my blood pressure is starting to do. My wife, sensing the need for her calm concern, asks why he just did not go at the rest area. “Because once I start it will never stop,” was his answer. As ridiculous as that sounded, my wife knew what he meant and tried to reassure him that it would eventually stop. I’m not sure what else she said, but I think she was convincing him to try and use the bathroom again. I wasn’t sure what she was saying because I had heard two very scary words – “throw up.”
There are a few things in life that I simply will not be involved in, and one of those things is any vomit that does not issue forth from my own gut. So when it became apparent that there might be vomit, and worse, it might be close to me in the car, it was time for me to take immediate action. And almost on cue, the reserve fuel light came on. We took the next exit.
I swear to God, every time we are really hungry or really have to use the bathroom or the tank is totally empty, we end up taking one of those exits where the closest gas station is 5 miles from the exit. My GPS is all, “turn left. Turn left and then turn right. Stay right. Stay right!” while I’m cursing under my breath. Not only have I chosen the exit with the closest gas station miles away, but I actually have to turn on some other roads to get there. Dammit!
We arrive, and to my delight, as most things are near Williamsburg, Virginia, the gas station is nice, for a gas station. My wife intuitively understood where I was with my vomit phobia, so when I explain to my son that he absolutely will get out of the car and try to make something happen in the restroom, she reinforces my pleadings and offers to walk in with him.
I get out and pump gas. Yes, I understand that pumping one’s gas is a strange concept for Northerners. Here in Virginia the government of the Commonwealth trusts the proletariat to pump their own gas. I climb back in the van and wonder if the new puppy is also about to soil my vehicle. I don’t have very long to ponder this though as my wife is walking back out of the store.
I open the van door.
“How’s it going in there?”
“He said he threw up and pooped in his pants.”
“What? How did that happen?”
“I don’t know honey, why don’t you ask him?”
At this point, the likelihood of forfeit seems high, so I called the coach and sent my wife back in. Seeking to avoid further disaster, I took the puppy out to a grassy area where she promptly relieved herself. Good girl! My wife walked out and grabbed the puppy. “He won’t let me in. You need to go in there and check on him.”
As I said, the gas station was nice for a gas station, and he had the good sense to use the handicap stall. When I entered the stall, it looked like it was last visited by a group of Parkinson’s patients with explosive diarrhea and bad hangovers. Clearly he will need some practice at this before college.
“Dad, I pooped in my underwear, but I feel much better!”
“How did that happen?”
“Well, I started throwing up, and I just lost control.”
“Yeah, that really sucks. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
At this point in the story, it is important to explain to those of you who don’t have boys playing baseball that they typically wear what they call “sliding shorts.” These are lycra/spandex shorts that are worn underneath their pants and are long enough to protect their thighs and hips from abrasion when sliding. Usually they have a pocket for a cup. For whatever reason, my son prefers to put briefs on underneath his sliding shorts.
“Dad, can you get me some paper towels so I can wipe my underwear out?
Obviously my son has never had to do his own laundry.
“No way. Take it all off.”
Unfortunately I had to help with that process. As I walked out of the stall, soiled garment in hand, he was mortified as he thought for a moment that I was going to carry it out of the restroom, just like that, for all the world to see. Instead, I carefully slid it into the garbage can. He was impressed at that simple solution to such a complicated problem.
“Are you sure you feel better?”
“Yes, I feel great!”
“You gonna be all right with just your sliding shorts?”
“Yep!”
He cleaned himself up and got dressed while I washed my hands three times.
We walked out of the restroom and I asked the store clerk for a few plastic bags. No way was I going to turn this somewhat muted success story into an absolute failure by having a follow-on vomit episode in the van.
We made it to the tournament without incident.
He played very well and went 4 for 6 in his at-bats, despite having a fever by the start of the second game. His team lost both games, but I was extremely proud of him for not giving up after crapping his pants. There is no crying in baseball. There is also no puking and then crapping your pants and then quitting in baseball.
The video below shows all of his 6 at-bats. If you are a big baseball fan, watch him battle (and ultimately lose to an outside off-speed pitch) during his 3rd at-bat.
Google “George Brett Shit his pants” and let him watch that for inspiration. Your son can handle himself in the box. That third at bat is a good at bat. Looks like the kid was spinning the ball and your son hung in there. My son’s season as a 12 starts this Saturday at Baseball Heaven on Long Island. Good luck going forward.
OMG lmao at that George Brett video. My wife says You CANT play that for him. I say he hears that shit everyday at school. It will be played for him! Still lmao…Reminds me of the old adage: Never trust a fart after 30.
Sorry to those readers who I have undoubtedly offended.
That George Brett video was hysterical. Now I got to clean up the coffee I just spewed on my keyboard from laughing!
I always hated pitching against kids like your son. He sticks with anything on the outside of the plate, doesn’t swing at bad pitches, and is a general pain in the ass to get out. Those are all pretty good qualities in an 11 year old playing with a fever.
Way to keep cool on the drive.
Thanks! He’s worked really hard to get control of the mental aspect. The rest seems to come pretty easy.
On your son’s wedding day, I will have this blog hand delivered to him as a gift, memento, for such fond times of his childhhood.
Without a doubt, he will thank you for this.
My wife said almost the exact same thing. Seriously, word for word, with a few minor exceptions.
Yep, I know how it goes. Glad your son played well after all that.
There’s a Japanese over the counter medicine (OTC in Asian grocery stores) that we use for kid’s upset stomaches. Looks like black BBs, made of asphalt, smells like freshly laid road. Makes me sick, but works on everyone else when they feel like your son did.
Hmm. Sounds like the cure is worse than the illness?
Your son has some serious bball skills.
Thanks Flyseph. He loves the game. Lives for it, actually.
Give that kid a contract! I’d fight alongside him, when’s old enough of course.
That is an honor coming from you Rhino! We are working hard on the bravery.