Last night Number 3 had a baseball game.
In the third inning, he went in to pitch.
Number 3 is a pretty good pitcher. Really good, actually.
And this year he’s been super confident on the mound (or the bump, as Number 6 calls it), and it’s been fun to watch him pitch.
But last night, the umpire behind home plate was apparently either in training to work for the Yankees, or he was just on the world’s biggest power trip.
And his strike zone was approximately the size of a nickel.
Several parents were quite vocal about the ump’s calls.
Number 3 was growing increasingly frustrated. I could see his shoulders starting to slump and his head starting to hang.
I’m usually one of the louder parents cheering in the stands. Especially when Number 3 is pitching.
So as I saw him getting more and more upset, I started yelling out to him more.
Take your time!
Straight to the glove!
You know how to do this!
He managed to finish up the inning.
He didn’t let the world’s smallest strike zone get to him, and I was pretty sure all my encouragement from the sidelines had helped.
The next inning he pitched really well. There weren’t any hits or runs scored. He came back and rallied and he did great!
When the game was over and we were driving home I asked him, “Can you hear me when you’re on the mound?”
“YES!” he replied.
I knew it.
I knew I had helped him.
“AND CAN YOU PLEASE STOP DOING THAT? IT’S SO ANNOYING!”
From now on if anyone needs to find me, I guess I’ll be the mom in the bleachers with the muzzle on.