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Continuing with the preseason tournament...
The tournament host was a MS with two teams. We have V and JV in middle school, but I think they do it differently in Ohio (someone can correct me otherwise). Their coach referred to them as his 7th grade team and his 8th grade team. I presume that meant one was comprised of 6/7th and the other 7/8th graders. I dunno. Some of these coaches are very up front, and some are secretive about whatever their middle school master plan is. Serious business, I suppose--or maybe he just didn't find it significant like I did. I've found that 23 years in a technical support, repair-oriented job has made me involuntarily want to break down conversations to nuts and bolts, and do the same for anyone else who is held hostage by me. This is likely why my posts here in all realms of DFP are rarely brief.
So anyway, both teams were playing in the tournament, and our pool play result had us playing the host 7th grade team. This was a busy tournament and a nice field, and the atmosphere had me pretty excited to play again. Since I've only been a part of ONE, tournaments aren't a grind for me the way they are for travel parents and coaches. I'm sure to most of you, other than getting to watch the Game and make the memories with your kids, tournaments feel more like a job--a job that takes all your money instead of paying you, of course.
Despite my cheery disposition, I was stressing about DD2 getting her first MS pitching experience. She had maybe three innings of LL pitching (which was expectedly a disaster since she was only about four months into lessons), and those innings of fall ball I posted about earlier, which for the most part went pretty well. But this time she wasn't pitching to kids as young as 8 who were just as likely to have been swinging at an insect that at her accidental rise ball. In this tournament it was very likely that everyone she faced would have more playing experience than she, and most of the rest of our team to boot.
I was pretty nervous. I knew she had put in a lot of work outside of lessons, but she had also been putting that work in with ME and I was no pitching coach. I was trying my best to learn from her lessons and apply the right things, so I felt somewhat confident in her, but the realist in me was saying I had failed her and she would eat dirt in front of 100 people. We also had a very real problem.
The cleats on the turf.
After our pool play game as the girls stood by for the postgame coach speech, my gears were grinding. What the heck was I gonna do? I started looking at feet. Most of the girls had already ditched their cleats, so I was hoping to see a few pairs of athletic shoes. And right now, if you've decided to stick with my rambling story written at 2am, you likely already knew what I found.
Crocs. Metric crap-tons of Crocs. Black, white, purple, camo...blinged out with any manner of buttons in the holes, it was like a bag of perforated foam skittles twinkling before my eyes.
I HATE CROCS. They're the ugliest, dumbest piece of footwear other than Sketchers Shape-Ups (and possibly Roo's) to ever grace a human foot. Those of you offended by this statement are saying "but they're SO comfortable." I'm sure they are.
You do you. I'll stick with literally anything else. Meanwhile, I had to look for another solution in the short amount of time we had before an insignificant, yet still the biggest game of her career to date.
Yes, I'm making this more dramatic than it should be, but this is a SAGA--it says so in the title. I gotta reel you in for the next part...
Continuing with the preseason tournament...
The tournament host was a MS with two teams. We have V and JV in middle school, but I think they do it differently in Ohio (someone can correct me otherwise). Their coach referred to them as his 7th grade team and his 8th grade team. I presume that meant one was comprised of 6/7th and the other 7/8th graders. I dunno. Some of these coaches are very up front, and some are secretive about whatever their middle school master plan is. Serious business, I suppose--or maybe he just didn't find it significant like I did. I've found that 23 years in a technical support, repair-oriented job has made me involuntarily want to break down conversations to nuts and bolts, and do the same for anyone else who is held hostage by me. This is likely why my posts here in all realms of DFP are rarely brief.
So anyway, both teams were playing in the tournament, and our pool play result had us playing the host 7th grade team. This was a busy tournament and a nice field, and the atmosphere had me pretty excited to play again. Since I've only been a part of ONE, tournaments aren't a grind for me the way they are for travel parents and coaches. I'm sure to most of you, other than getting to watch the Game and make the memories with your kids, tournaments feel more like a job--a job that takes all your money instead of paying you, of course.
Despite my cheery disposition, I was stressing about DD2 getting her first MS pitching experience. She had maybe three innings of LL pitching (which was expectedly a disaster since she was only about four months into lessons), and those innings of fall ball I posted about earlier, which for the most part went pretty well. But this time she wasn't pitching to kids as young as 8 who were just as likely to have been swinging at an insect that at her accidental rise ball. In this tournament it was very likely that everyone she faced would have more playing experience than she, and most of the rest of our team to boot.
I was pretty nervous. I knew she had put in a lot of work outside of lessons, but she had also been putting that work in with ME and I was no pitching coach. I was trying my best to learn from her lessons and apply the right things, so I felt somewhat confident in her, but the realist in me was saying I had failed her and she would eat dirt in front of 100 people. We also had a very real problem.
The cleats on the turf.
After our pool play game as the girls stood by for the postgame coach speech, my gears were grinding. What the heck was I gonna do? I started looking at feet. Most of the girls had already ditched their cleats, so I was hoping to see a few pairs of athletic shoes. And right now, if you've decided to stick with my rambling story written at 2am, you likely already knew what I found.
Crocs. Metric crap-tons of Crocs. Black, white, purple, camo...blinged out with any manner of buttons in the holes, it was like a bag of perforated foam skittles twinkling before my eyes.
I HATE CROCS. They're the ugliest, dumbest piece of footwear other than Sketchers Shape-Ups (and possibly Roo's) to ever grace a human foot. Those of you offended by this statement are saying "but they're SO comfortable." I'm sure they are.
You do you. I'll stick with literally anything else. Meanwhile, I had to look for another solution in the short amount of time we had before an insignificant, yet still the biggest game of her career to date.
Yes, I'm making this more dramatic than it should be, but this is a SAGA--it says so in the title. I gotta reel you in for the next part...
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