3 More Games. Only 3 More Games

So The Boy loves baseball.  Well, it's T-ball, sort of.  The coaches pitch, but after 5 tries they can hit off the tee, and everyone bats through twice and it's over in an hour.  Defensive plays are nice, but not necessary to the game. All in all, it's a good arrangement - spectators don't get that deer in headlights trapped expression from the game dragging on, they play at 6:15 so there's plenty of time to get home, showered, and in bed at a decent hour, and the field is 3 miles from the house. 

But I've gotta say that in terms of behavior, this team is absolutely the WORST BEHAVED group of Kindergarteners and First Graders I've ever witnessed.  Oh, I can hear you now:  "But BAW," you gasp in shock, "surely you must be exaggerating!"  To which I can only reply:  HA!  HA!  Examples?  You want examples?  Oh, I'll give you examples, and I'll even change the names to protect the not-even-a-little-bit-innocent hellions.

First, there is the coach's son--let's call him Cletus.  WHY is it always the coach's son?  This past spring, the coach's son was a ginormous butthead who hogged the ball, the field, and the coach's attention, because he would. not. listen.  This go round, the coach's son is just a mean little bastard, and yes, I realize that I, a fully grown adult, am calling a 6-year-old a mean little bastard, but there's simply no other term that adequately describes him. He hits and pushes teammates, pretends his father doesn't exist, and actually CLEATED (as in, deliberately kicked with cleats pointed outward) an assistant coach last week.  Of course, the assistant coach who got cleated by Cletus also has a son on the team who won't listen (we'll call him Abel), and a younger son who likes to hit his brother's teammates with a bat (I've dubbed that one Cain). Interestingly enough, one of the teammates Cain hit was Cletus, so I guess that proves instant karma exists even for 5 and 6 year olds.  And no, I didn't go, "HA!  In your face, Cletus! Live by the cleat, die by the bat!" when it happened.  I made sure that Cletus was okay first, and then said it under my breath.

So, we've got Cletus the bully, and Abel, the other coach's son, and his little brother, Cain. Then there's Spacely, the OTHER assistant coach's son, who isn't a bully, but who I want to check repeatedly for brain damage.  I'm calling him Spacely for a reason, that reason being his tendency to wander off in the middle of a game, and ignore his father calling him, or correcting him, or telling him "no."

Sensing a theme, are we?

Spacely's soulmate is a little girl I'll call Zephyr, for lo, she is a free spirit.  So free, in fact, that no adult in America can constrain her free freedom of freediosity. Zephyr likes to play catch in the bleachers during her at bat. Yeah.

Then there's Damien, a mouthy little brat who also likes to beat people up and who tells any adult who intervenes "You can't tell me what to do!"

And let's not forget Gabriel, who looks like a pudgy kid from 1957 with a buzz cut and glasses.  He likes to call his teammates losers and brag about his abilities, which are non-existent.

So, since Hublet volunteered to help coach, and since this tends to leave him solo in the dugout during the at-bats, AND since the Cain/Cletus bat incident resulted in my marching into the dugout, grabbing boys and bats, and barking orders, prompting Cain's father to ask, "Are you a teacher?" and me to reply, "No! I'm just bossy!" I have become the default Dugout Mom. 

The job sucks about as hard as something not attached to an industrial strength Hoover can suck, in case you're wondering.

See, the thing all of these tiny spawns of Satan's loins have in common is a complete and total lack of parental control. Or intervention. Or anything really resembling parenting. There are no consequences for bad behavior for these kids, and the parents seem more than happy to foist them off onto other adults to deal with. I thought that my heading into the dugout uninvited and summarily prying kids off the fence and off of each other, plunking them onto the bench, and telling them to stay put would embarrass the parents into controlling their offspring.  No such luck.

And since I cannot actually beat them into submission, my options for keeping the peace are limited.

I'm laying in a supply of duct tape, though, in case of emergency.