Baseball Heroes and Raising Little Boys

My son loves baseball. Loves it. Breathes it. Lives it. He knows all the players. He knows their faces on their baseball cards. He knows which teams they’ve played for and which ones they are currently played for. This is a really odd thing considering I know NOTHING about any professional sports teams. Nil. Zilch. So you’d think my husband must be some kind of obsessed person himself. But he’s not really, either. He played baseball in high school and loved it, but until we had a son I never heard him talk about it. It must be that boys bring out the little boy in their dads. It started last summer when he was about 20 months, but now it’s in full swing.

Suddenly we listen (never watch) to the game on the radio every night. He wants to know who’s up to bat, and what the score is. He cheers when we win, and is sad when we lose. Clearly I’m getting into this too because I just used the first person plural when making reference to the Minnesota Twins. *sigh* He and his Dada go to Saints games, Twins games, and now his own Dada’s softball league games (which was like heaven on earth!!).

And he’s trying to win over his sister to the game, too. Overheard in the car yesterday:

SuperBoy to SweetPea “Can you say ‘Joe Mauer’? Joooooeeeee Maaaaaawwwwweeeerrrr. Can you say ‘Justin Morneau?’ Jusssssteeeeeeennnn Moooorrrrrrrrnnnnnnooooo. What about Brian Dozier? Brrriiiiiiiiiiiannnnnnn Dozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzier.”

SweetPea to SuperBoy: “Dada. DA-DA-DA-DA!!!!!”

SuperBoy to SweetPea: “Okay. How about this? Try saying Juuuussssttttteeeennnn MoooorrrDADA.”

She did. He praised her. It was his first role as mediator. Way to go, buddy.