(I’m sure I’ll talk more about this in the coming weeks. This was from his first game.)

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We are members of our local YMCA. In the early fall, we received information about the fall and winter offerings for adults and kids alike. When I saw the info about kids, I initially skipped it thinking that it wouldn’t apply to our family. When I went back, I saw that BigBrother, who turned three in November, would be old enough for a few things come this new year. After some discussion with FireDad, we went ahead and registered him for the Youth Basketball program.

BigBrother fell into the “Itty Bitty” age group of three to five years old. As he had never experienced anything like this (structured game type setting), we began talking about it pretty early on. For Christmas, my parents got him a Little Tikes basketball hoop that we put up in the playroom (and that will move outside once this winter ick passes). The week leading up to his first practice, we talked it up and really drove home how fun it is to play a baksetball game with other kids.

The problem wasn’t with his excitement level. The problem was with the two weeks of practice (two 45 minute sessions on a Saturday). All 50 kids in his age group were in the gym at the same time. At the beginning, they all sat in a circle and stood to stretch. That was met with tears the first week. When they split them in half (which was still 25 kids!) for passing and shooting instruction, he was still overwhelmed that first week. In fact, the second week, while better, was still overwhelming for him.

We were beginning to doubt that he was ready for something of this structure. He loved his new basketball shoes and his water bottle. And he always ended the day with a smile on his face. But he just seemed overwhelmed. Still, we thought that maybe the difference of having only a team’s worth of kids at one time would make the difference and, so, on Saturday, we left the house for his first game. He seemed unsure but came along without tears.

He stood around for a bit, looking at the other kids. I helped him remember how to dribble. He passed with another child for awhile. A five year old girl came up to me and said, “Does he know how to play basketball” with a mouthful of attitude. I said, “Well, he’s only three,” with a smile on my face. She then informed us that she was the biggest and the “bestest” on the team. I just smiled and went back to helping BigBrother with his dribbling. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed!

Then the whistle blew.

They originally were going to put him on the court first but decided he could sit and watch for a few rotations first. (There were eight kids so three got to sit at any given time.) When it was finally his time, he shocked everyone and got right into it. The two times that he actually had the ball, he wasn’t really sure what to do but he was encouraged by his coaches to pass or shoot. They gave him time instead of stripping it away and giving it to one of the more learned kids. In fact, for the whole game, the coaches were very encouraging to all of the children (even their own). The coach on the bench was always sure to tell the kids that they did a great job. And afterward, the kids slapped high fives.

And BigBrother afterward? Was so excited that he could barely contain himself. He asked me today if he could play another basketball game. He can’t wait until his next game (which I don’t have the heart to tell him won’t be this coming weekend because of a gymnastics meet in the gym). FireDad and I are very relieved. If the game had ended in total failure and/or tears, we likely wouldn’t have continued on with the season. But seeing how happy he was and knowing that he got some great exercise and learning done in the process, we are pleased with how this has gone.

While I’m sure non-YMCA programs are just as good, I have a feeling that this one is just right for BigBrother. It’s more about learning about teamwork and fun than the act of winning. One little boy, who mouthed off to the five-year-old-girl earlier, mentioned something about being a loser and was told that no one who tries is a loser. And that’s a good lesson to learn. We’ve also learned as parents to go at an experience like this with an attitude of fun, acknowledge their fears and to allow them some space to watch and make their own decision.

I mean, come on. Look at this face (taken immediately after the game).

Yes, I think that we made the right decision.

Two Saturdays ago, FireDad and I handed both brothers over to my parents and headed into Pittsburgh for a Date Night. While others’ date nights may involve fancy dinners, movies and fancy clothing, we take a more game oriented approach to date night. And by game, why yes, I do mean baseball.

I grew up in Western Pennsylvania, for those who aren’t in the know, and as such, I am a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. It’s true. They’re awful. But when you’re from Pittsburgh, you tend to look past the doom and gloom and find that silver lining. The silver lining, of course, being PNC Park. (Of course, I was still able to find that silver lining at Three Rivers, but, you’ve got to admit… PNC Park is swanky.) FireDad somehow escaped the love of the heinous teams of the state in which he was born and raised and in which we now live and raise our children. He, too, is a Pirates fan.

He’s also a fan of sandwiches with french fries on them, so, it’s really win-win. (Yes, Primanti Brothers has a restaurant at the stadium. See? Totally win-win.)

And while we had a great night (because the Pirates won in extra innings!), I’ve been mulling something over since we left the stadium that night. And by mulling it over, I do mean that I’ve been stewing over it and getting angrier and angrier. And now? It’s time to rant.

The past two years that we have made it out for a game, we have been seated in front of, next two and/or behind the Most Inconsiderate Fans Ever. This year, as we attended the game on Fire Fighter’s Night, I figured there would be some camaraderie, some laughter and a night of baseball among brothers. The guy seated directly behind me had a different idea. Apparently he and his crew had been drinking in the parking lot for four hours prior to the first pitch. And his language showed it.

FireDad and I decided, even prior to that first pitch, that if we took one sip of beer every time the guy behind us called the Cubs, the Pirates, his friends, other fans, the umpire or the Parrot a “bum,” we would have been rip-roaring drunk by the bottom of the first inning. Everything that happened warranted use of the word “bum.” Cubs pitcher walked our guy? He was a bum. Umpire called a Pirate out? He was a bum. Pirates batter struck out? He was a bum. The Cubs fans seated in front of FireDad and I stood up to cheer? They were bums.

Now, the word itself doesn’t really strike me, while writing this, as overly offensive. And, by itself, even at the loud volume with which it was screamed, it would have been tolerable. But it wasn’t just the word all by its lonesome. We had some big-f-word bums. And you know if he’s dropping the f-bomb, all other words are “fair play” as well. You know, even though the announcer says, prior to that first pitch, that the ball park is a family environment and foul language will not be tolerated.

I never said anything to the bum himself because I learned never to fight with someone who is drunk. But I started to think. And as I thought, I started to get mad.

I went to Three Rivers with regularity as I was growing up. My Dad loved a baseball game and I loved anything that my Dad took me to, especially if it involved nachos. I grew up understanding the game and played softball myself (pitcher) for eleven years. I want to share that same kind of love with my boys. But how am I supposed to take them to a game when bums like that are always sitting around us? Now, granted, we were sitting pretty darn close on the first base line (no foul balls; bummer). Looking up to “Peanut Heaven,” I saw some seats that we could have sat in without being bothered by any bums. But is this fair? Should children and their heights-wary Moms have to be forced to sit at the tippy-top of a stadium just to avoid something that the announcer said not to do in the first place?

I’m not talking about taking BigBrother to the game this year. Or even next year. Our goal was the summer that he is four (two summers) as that will be his first year playing T-Ball (should he choose to actually stick with it after they start). And I realize that I can’t shield him from foul language for all eternity (have you heard what I say when I step on a tiny, sharp and pointy fire truck?) but I really don’t want him walking out of PNC Park calling everyone he sees a big-f-word bum!

True. To protect my child (and my ear drums) (and my sanity) (and the guy’s face), I could be the Language Police and go find security to whine about the guy’s language behind me. But do you know what? They don’t always eject those guys. Most often they just come and tell them to tone it down. Do you know then gets nasty things said to them? Yeah. The Language Police. It’s a lose-lose situation right there; one that surely won’t make the kid’s game more enjoyable.

And so, it looks like two summers from now, you will find our family in the tippy-top row. I guess we’ll find out if BigBrother has good eyesight, right? It’s a shame we don’t… and that heights make me squeamish. Oh, it’s all for the love of the game, right?

Today I miss my home. I just had to call my Dad and get weepy on the phone. Myron Cope passed away at the age of 79. If you’re not from Pittsburgh and/or not a fan of the Steelers, that means nothing to you. But he was a legend. My heart is broken. I’m going to dress the boys in Steelers gear for the rest of the week. And wave my Terrible Towel. You’ll be missed, Myron. You inspired many a sports broadcaster. You inspired many a fan. We know you’ll be waving that towel with us for centuries to come.