Cups

After a two-year hiatus, my boys are back in Little League. As my husband and I quickly have learned, a lot has changed since the days of preschool t-ball. One of the biggest differences is the uniform.

Two years ago, the coach was happy if his players were potty-trained. Now he wants them to wear cups. The directive was so important that it warranted two emails and an after practice parent meeting. At said meeting, everyone swore up and down that they would buy protective equipment for our sons before the first game. Except for me. I was in the bathroom during the announcement, scrubbing dirt and sand out of my two year-old's hair after he rolled, like a wet golden retriever, on the pitcher's mound.

Fast forward to tonight--the season opener. Before the first pitch, the coach walked through the dug out and asked each of his players to punch his own crotch. Cup check, he called it.

One by one, each boy knocked on his privates as if it was the front door to some magical palace. Every person's privates made a hollow sound, except for my boys'. My sons glared at me through the chain link fence. Their coach did the same.

"I forgot," I mouthed. Cups are not things that I think about on a daily basis. Or ever.

"I'll go to the store right now," my husband volunteered, grabbing the car keys. By the end of the first inning, fear of the inevitable no longer hung over the baseball field like a dark cloud. With the cups in place, my sons stood a little taller, and batted a little better. When one of them struck out, he took it like the man that he now is.

"Do you want to see it?" Kellen asked after the game. The object was in his bag, hidden from view.

I shook my head. "No thanks," I replied.

I will never forget the look on my son's face. It was as though he had won a state championship, and I refused to acknowledge the trophy.

I feel terrible.