Baseball takes up A LOT of time in our lives, especially with Hubby coaching. As the Coach’s Wife, I have many of my own responsibilities. I like to refer to myself as the First Lady of Little League. It’s exactly like being the President’s wife, or having some equally as prestigious position, except with cleats and athletic supporters. (Take THAT Michele Obama.) And don’t get me started on the orange baseball dirt . . . you baseball mommies know of what I speak.
A brief list of my responsibilities as the First Lady of Little League:
- Make sure that no cleats make it past the bin in the garage and into the house. Cleats are to be removed and applied on the steps in the garage, and at no time are they to be introduced to my hardwood floors and/or my white carpet.
- Wash, dry, fold, and put away 2 red practice jerseys, 2 blue practice jerseys, 1 uniform jersey, 1 coach’s jersey, 2 athletic supporters, red socks, navy socks, and 3 sets of those horrible polyester baseball pants that NEVER come clean of baseball dirt and whose washing instructions include the direction do not bleach. Are you kidding me?
- Help Large pack his bag for practice/games so that he has his glove, his bats, his batting glove, his batting helmet, his ball cap, and his water bottle. One or more of these items is always missing, which we discover at 4:59 pm. This sometimes necessitates a special trip in a separate car to the ball-field.
- Remind Hubby that while it IS important that Large be responsible for his own things, Large is 8 years old. Sh*t happens. Also, do NOT snicker knowingly when Hubby can’t find his own hat. And definitely do NOT tell Large that he should say, “Daddy, you have GOT to take more responsibility for your belongings” as Hubby frantically searches for said ball cap.
- Facilitate snack distribution and a concession stand.
This leads me to Part B of today’s blog: what happened yesterday.
Here is a timeline of how it SHOULD have happened.
Tuesday: Boymommy goes to the pizza store (let's call it Father J’s, shall we?) where I speak directly to the manager. I place two separate orders for 4 pizzas; the first order to be delivered at 1:00 and the second order to be delivered at 3:00 on Sunday. I provide my credit card number, my telephone number, the physical address for the Ball Park and the name of the specific field we will be using. Good day to you, sir.
Wednesday: the Manager thinks to himself, hmmmm . . . I’m concerned my driver may not know where to go on Sunday, so I’m going to do some research and provide him with the necessary information.
Sunday: Order #1 arrives at 12:55, is delivered hot, straight from the oven, and in an insulated bag, and the order is prepaid. Order #2 arrives at 2:55. Both drivers are professional and friendly.
Now. You wanna know how it really went down?
Tuesday: Same as above . . . store, order, credit card, address. Good day to you, sir.
Friday: I call and speak with the manager with whom I placed the order and confirm that we are all set for delivery on Sunday.
Sunday, 10:00 AM: Father J’s opens for the day. I call to confirm that our orders will be delivered at 1:00 and 3:00. I am put on hold. I listen to annoying reassurances that my call is very important to them, that they are thankful for my call, and that they will be with me momentarily. A haggard-sounding employee answers and says that indeed, my pizzas will be delivered.
Sunday, 1:00 PM: the concession stand is set up and the game has started. Anyone who would like a slice of pizza for lunch is sh*t outta luck.
Sunday, 1:04 PM: No pizzas yet.
Sunday, 1:10 PM: I call Father J’s and ask to speak with a manager.
“I’m calling to check the status of an order that is supposed to be delivered to the ball field?” I say pleasantly. Because at this point, I’m still pleasant.
“I apologize for the delay, ma’am. It is on its way as we speak.” Of course it is.
Sunday, 1:40 PM: No pizza. And I’m no longer pleasant. I call again.
“I’m calling to check the status of an order I placed 4 days ago which was supposed to be delivered 40 minutes ago?” Yep, annoyed, and getting a tad b*tchy.
“Hang on, I’ve got my driver on the other line. I’m going to have him call you directly.”
Driver: “Where ARE you? I’ve been driving up and down the street and I don’t see a B***** Field.”
Me: “We are at ***** Park, and the FIELD is B******. I explained all of this to the manager when I placed the order!”
Driver: Big sigh . . . “all right, I’m on my way.”
Sunday, 1:45 PM: Driver finally arrives, all smiles.
Driver: “Hi, how are you?”
Driver: “What? Why?”
Me: “This order was supposed to be here 45 minutes ago! We have lost out on 45 minutes of selling pizza to the lunch crowd.”
Driver: “It’s not my fault. I didn’t know where you were.”
Oh, it’s ON.
Me: “Stop. This is what I need you to say: ‘I apologize for the delay and I will make SURE your 3:00 order arrives on time. I am sorry. I will make it right.’
At this point the driver turns around, heads straight for his car, and then peels out of the parking lot, sending gravel and dust everywhere and frightening young children. (I added the young children thing for dramatic effect.)
A little while later, the manager calls and asks for my credit card number. You have GOT to be kidding me.
“I provided my credit card information on Tuesday when I placed the order. You know what? Here . . it’s 1234567812345678. If it hits my credit card twice, I am going to be. Pissed. Off.”
My 3:00 order arrived at 2:55, and the delivery driver was different. It was not the same highwater-wearing, white-socks-with-black-shoes, bespectacled, still-living-in-his-parents’-basement, 30-year-old pizza delivery boy. I’m thinking he was afraid to come back, but I’m willing to concede that he probably spit in my pizza.