AoM aka Muscle

I feel like some really bad movie loan shark collector-dude. Teeball season entails putting 4-, 5- and 6-year-olds in sliding pants, cleats and batting helmets that are too big on a field and watching the comedy of errors begin.

I laughed hysterically at Coach Dad Gone Mad and figure I'll have some very similar pictures for you folks in a few weeks. You can share my pain.

I played competitive fast-pitch softball and schooled most of my guy friends in baseball growing up. I was picked first when the boys split up to form teams at recess on the playground. This always confounded the boys who just moved to our school. That is, until they saw me hit, throw and catch. My tournament team was fourth in state one year and finished at the top of our region consistently.

I tell you that, not to brag, but so you understand why it makes my brain hurt to watch teeball practice. Swear to God. My brain literally hurts. There is one kid digging in the dirt, another checking out the bird outside of the left field fence, the kids who don't run to first when they hit the ball, etc. etc. Plus, Coach Army of Dad comes home grumpy from practice. At least our kid is decent. Thank God.

But, back to the muscle. We are selling, ok, we're done selling, raffle tickets for a fundraiser. Now, my job is to collect the money, ticket stubs or unsold tickets. So, I call every parent and remind them Monday to bring the crap on Tuesday. Do you think everyone did? No? You'd be right. So, in addition to being the baseball association's leg-breaker, now I have to play telemarketer-collection asshole, too, calling everyone and telling them I will be coming by their house to pick the crap up. How did I get roped into THIS job? Because we all know I have nothing else to do.

I may not have to worry about my gray hairs because I may pull them all - brunette, highlights AND gray - out soon.