Ah, an invite to the annual Meet the Team Dinner Banquet for my son’s college baseball program.
He’s done but I guess the hand out — as in extended hand — is ongoing.
Understand, I was the parent of a walk-on. I willingly accepted … even braced for … the private school tuition that knocked my economic well-being to Grapes of Wrath-era levels.
My cash — all of it — was spoken for but this team event was the program’s big fundraising push — a must do, can’t miss.
What we’ll do for our kids right?
Not one to meddle in my son’s career — it’s his baby — I have little doubt he gave 1,000 percent to succeed but … and this is me … as the DNP’s (did not plays) stacked up, my BFF (best friend forever) attitude and interest (athletically) toward the program/school sank.
After several years spending hundreds of dollars each weekend to watch the same kids play, I retreated to an I’ll-be-there-if-you’re-in-the-lineup basis.
So picture me at the yearly banquets: slighty miffed, nearly indigent and with people who weren’t. The fact I wanted to be back in a flannel shirt surrounded by my broke-down cars is an understatement.