T-ball is part of parenting, like teething and potty-training

It seems exceptionally cruel to make the t-ball spectators stand, doesn’t it?

Last Friday was opening day for youth baseball here in town, and by the time my son’s t-ball game entered the top of the 438th inning — his team was way up on their opponents, 287-174 — those with lawn chairs were the envy of everyone else.

Listen, I have no problem standing at rock concerts.

Or for parades.

Or to ride Splash Mountain at Disney World.

But having to stand for the entirety of a t-ball game is sort of like experiencing the Bataan Death March to a degree.

I don’t think admitting to that makes me a bad parent, either.

I love my kid. Most days.

It was fun for a few minutes to see him at shortstop — or at least in close proximity to where a shortstop is supposed to stand — with his back to the batter.

But, wow, was that a long game or what?

I was fully prepared to see a couple of grandmas keel right over from exhaustion, at which point I half-expected to see Nikki Uebel, who’s in charge of Greene County’s youth baseball/softball program, run over and whap them with a bamboo cane like a Japanese commandant and order them back on their feet.

I’m just kidding, of course.

Kind of.

I’m now told every parent suffers through t-ball, just as every parent also endures teething and potty-training.

It’s just part of the job.

Initially, though, it seems like such a cool concept — “Wow, honey, our little guy is now old enough to play t-ball!”

Don’t believe the hype.

Giving a dozen preschoolers baseball mitts and setting them up around a baseball diamond is like the proverbial room full of monkeys at typewriters.

Sooner or later, one of them is going to make a play that makes it look like they’re actually playing baseball.

The rest of the time, they’re perfectly content to scamper about and throw around their own feces.

Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone when my son ran to first base and then stayed on first base until it was time to go to second.

The little dance he did while standing on first might even become his trademark, like Ozzie Smith’s famous backflips or something.

But, a 60-minute game is plenty long enough even for the players, and it didn’t take long for the natives to get restless.

With about 15 minutes left, one kid literally just took off, sending the coach to chase after him.

It was actually the coach’s son, and they never did come back, come to think of it.

A few weeks ago in this space, I predicted that coaching t-ball would be like trying to herd cats.

I now say this — the prophecy is true.

Oh, sure, they’re cute. All of ’em.

T-ballers at least have that going for them.

But, by about the second time through the batting rotation, the novelty kinda wears off.

And so you’re left to stand there and ponder the future.

“Gee,” you think, “if I conned my kid into trading his baseball glove for a violin, I’d never have to stand again. Who’s ever been to a recital where you stand?”

Already, though, you can spot the dads who are going to be crazy intense.

To them, I want to say, “Brother, don’t rush it. Right now, they just want to scoop up dirt with their baseball glove.”

The youth teams these days, though, have much cooler names than when I was a kid.

My son’s team, the Jammers, took on the Lake Monsters, which I guess could conceivably pass for Double-A team names.

Back in my day, they just stole names from Major League teams.

But, if Nikki Uebel is looking for extra team names on down the road, might I suggest the Chupacabras or the Lycanthropes.

Ooh, or how about the Druids? The Insurgents? The Guerillas? The Assassins? The Minotaurs?

All awesome team names, in my book.

And, seriously now, I hope my son keeps playing baseball.

After all, when he gets to the big field, there’s at least a place to sit.