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Lost Smart Phone and a Broken Thumb

June 5, 2016

Summer has finally arrived in Northern Colorado.  The kids are out of school.  The twins are playing youth baseball, and yes, I am coaching again.  We can talk about that in a couple minutes.

 

Boy Twin celebrated the end of school by having a sleepover.  An “invite TWO thirteen year-old boys over” sleepover.  You probably have realized that sleepovers are not my favorite thing to host.

 

It was okay.  The boys spent most of the time building a TWO STORY tree house on our property a couple hundred yards from our house.

 

I was expecting three smart (construction language) teenagers with their smart phones sitting on the couch in my house eating pizza and drinking sodas, leaving trash all around.  I didn’t get any of that.  What I got was three kids stealing my extra wood and using my tools.  Other than reminding them to bring my tools back to the house, the weekend pretty well.  I did say weekend,  didn’t I?  One of the boys stayed two nights and three days.  His parents must have gloriously happy.

 

OK, I’m kidding his parents called after three days and made him go home.  Of course, not everything was idyllic.  Boy Twin has not been able to find his “smart” phone since the last boy left for home.  Seems Boy Twin didn’t want his friends to “mess” with his phone, and can’t remember where he hid it.

 

He cannot contact his friends, including his girlfriend, because he doesn’t know any phone numbers.  I asked him, “How’s that contact list working for you now?”  He responded with, “Oh Monner, you are so old, no one dials phones anymore.”  He might be right, but I still dial every number I call. There may be a contact list in my phone, because of Ivy put one there, but I use the one in my head.

 

Let’s talk about baseball!  The twins and I are with the Dodgers this year.  Historically, I have never been a fan of anything Dodger (except Sandy Koufax) .  Google him.  Our team is a group of misfits that are either new to town or signed up for youth baseball after most team rosters had been filled.

 

A couple months back the assistant director of the local baseball organization called me wondering if the twins were going to play this year and whether I would coach another team.  I answered yes to both questions.

 

Our “Dodgers” are a bunch of 13 and 14 year-olds from across the city.  Girl Twin is the only girl playing in the league.  I am coaching one boy that is barely seventy pounds.  I have another boy that shaves, EVERY DAY.

 

Another boy’s father is an EMT.  This boy told me a story of a time when his father injured himself in the backwoods of Oregon.  As the story goes, the father coached his young son as the son sutured the back of the father’s leg, including administering tissue numbing injections.

 

This boy told me if I ever needed sewed up, he was my guy.  Ironically, I sliced my leg the following week in my construction life, but this kid was no where to be found.  Good thing I knew where to find an Urgent Care.

 

Anyway, back to baseball.  Our team is actually pretty competitive in our league.  We beat last years’ city champions in the first game of this year.

 

Girl Twin is holding her own with the boys.  Actually, she is bettering some of the boys, especially one boy in particular.

 

In one game Girl Twin was running home from third base.  The opposing team’s catcher caught the ball and Girl Twin slid into home plate.  What seemed to be a minor collision between the two players, took place near home plate.  Girl Twin’s knee hit the other player in his hand, forcing this thumb back.  The breaking of the thumb could be heard in the stands.  The boy let out a scream.  Gil Twin immediately went into “what have I done?’ mode.

 

As the other boy was escorted off the field, I put my arm around Girl Twin and told her “things happen and it wasn’t her fault.  I walked her back to the bench, where she was met by EMT boy.  He “high-fived” her and said “Good slide!’

 

Well, it WAS a good slide, however, we will wonder about the logic of a teenage boy.

 

Our crazy lives!

 

Monner

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