Well, I’m pretty sure (along with 11 other mamas) I know what Stetson Bennett’s mama felt like the morning of the National Championship. ‘Cause our babies just played in THE Dizzy Dean World Series.
Southaven, Mississippi wasn’t on my bucket list. (Sorry to all the citizens of the fine town.) But it just wasn’t. Wasn’t even on my Google maps as a suggestion when I typed in S-O-U…, even suggested that I add an ‘h’ in there because Southaven doesn’t look like SouthHaven but more like SouthAven, but I guess they figured they had enough doubled consonants in their state’s name, so they left it alone, but I digress.
So, as I was saying, Southaven wasn’t on my bucket list. I wouldn’t even say I was “excited” or “looking forward” to going. (Let me be the first to say: I’m a changed woman as this goes to post, hallelujah and praise the Lord for the miracles He produces.)But, this time last week, there I was, with that husband and baby boy of mine, rolling a luggage rack full of baseball paraphernalia and desert heat survival gear in to the Comfort Suites of Olive Branch, MS, ready to set up a makeshift locker room slash clubhouse in the hotel room of ours. Slugging it all down the hall after waiting an eternity for the one elevator to procure, I see baseball signs with names of kids on paper thin doors. Lots of ’em. And then I realize, I ain’t in Kansas, Dorothy. I’m in Miss-a-freakin-ssippi and we ’bout to play some ball, y’all.
Southaven is home to a baseball complex known as Snowden Grove, and this is where the Dizzy Dean World Series is held every summer in the hottest part of the year that it can possibly be scheduled. Seriously, I believe they look at the Farmers’ Almanac, the National Weather prediction center, global warming stats, and then pick the days that will be akin to hell’s fire when scheduling the tournament. Outside the fences to enter the complex would be a great place for baptisms and repentance to occur, ’cause this heat will scare the hell out of you. And as crazy as it sounds, it is possible to have chill bumps in 105 degree weather. It’s a phenomenon that happens when you watch a precious group of 8 and 9 year olds band all the way together and pull out a win and jump up and down in a great big huddle with the love just oozing out all over the field.
The complex is packed out with bands of traveling gypsy-esque pods, who can tear down and reassemble camp quicker than a pitcher can strike somebody out. Tailgate tents, YETI coolers full of hydration and melted ice (yep–those YETIs are no match for this heat), fold up chairs, and battery operated fans; generators for portable cooling units, and bags packed down with snacks and sunscreen and a towel or two, all wheeled in wagons dragged by baseball capped moms and dads. Like a well-oiled machine, camp is set up around the field where your team plays, and the cheering section is thusly formed. Have ball, will travel.
In the air there are roars of cheers, screaming mammas: “Keep your eye on the baaawwwll, Tyyyysoonn!!” “Breathe deep baby, you got this!!” “Get him oowwwwt, soooon!!”, measures of music from “Turn Down for What” to “Put Me in Coach”, and whaps of balls smacking metal and punching leather. You can smell Coppertone and steaming astroturf and hotdogs-both kinds- the ones you eat and the armpits of most. It’s a dadgum country fair atmosphere!
There are all kinds of people here, and all want to watch some good ole baseball. There’s the Daddies, all discussing strategy and leaning against fences or pacing dugouts and cheering loud and tossing some advice to their respective boy. There’s the mamas, all discussing the rude coach on the team they just played, jumping up and down out of their seats, cheering loud and tossing water and gatorade and sunscreen to their respective boy. Then there are the ballpark babies and brothers and sisters who are absolutely in the running for sainthood of some sort. They brave the heat, cheer their hearts out, test the run limits on a diaper, and risk being picked up and tossed in the air when there is a victory of some sort. They snap pics, run after fouls, and perform any mascot duties as necessary. When giving out MVP awards, they must not be forgotten.
Before play begins, I always run to empty the nervous bladder, like I’m the one that’s about to get pitched a ball. Let me just say, some of those ball mamas in the latrine act like skint cats in heat with a set of hemorrhoids and the hissing and slanty eyes when they see the logo on your hat is enough to make me want to tuck tail and run. Now mind you, I said some-because most of these ladies are just pleasant as you please and remember that it’s just a game and these boys are kids and ain’t none of ’em getting scouted by the Braves any time soon if ever, but just to be on the safe side, I don’t wear my child’s number on me where anybody can see, because I can just hear it now: Some mean ole’ mama in the outfield yelling out at my boy: “Hey #12! Yo mama smells like a sack of Jimmie’s hotdogs!” and I ain’t got time to fight a grown woman who may be speaking some truth.
Our boys played their little hearts out and we walked away the runners-up in the World Series. While we were short of the first place, we were long on memories and good times and victories and pride and love. Our fellas played with character and guts and team attitudes. None of ours needed pacifiers and a spanking when they got called out or made a mistake or pop flied like some 8 and unders we witnessed. They were kind on and off the field and showed sportsmanship and character, and THAT my friends, is what it really is all about. Our parents showed character, too, even after some natural disaster of a team wanted to destruct everything in their path with nasty words and selfish behaviors. (That’s why I referenced those hotel doors as paper thin- ’cause you could hear every ding dong thing those opposing team youngsters were spewing and screaming at 12:00 AM Central time which is 1:00 AM Eastern time when we have to be up in mere hours for our first game, making us adults (or at least me) want to go out and Rambo/school teacher all over them. Obviously I’m over it.)
We were a TEAM. And guys, I’m going to tell you something. If you’ve never been a part of one- one where you felt supported, included, celebrated, and LOVED, then you ain’t living. The joys and disappointments and meanies all handled TOGETHER. It just feels…good.
Is this heaven?
No, it’s Mississippi.
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