Superstition and the Tie-Breaker

When my dad was younger he played baseball every chance he got and, believe you me, he was the brute of Sorenson Park. Nobody dared mess with that boy from Arapaho Avenue, I tell you what. My dad played the position of catcher. He was his own version of the Sandlot's Ham. Only scrawnier and, I imagine, mustached already. I'm sure he sprouted his 'stache at the same time his first teeth appeared.

If you don't know the Great Hambino from the Sandlot, first of all shame on you. You are officially an L-7 wienie. Yeah, yeah, Oscar Meyer, even. Foot long! Dodger dog! A WIENIE!! Secondly you must stop reading this immediately, go and find a copy of the movie and properly immerse yourself in this cinema classic. You can thank me as soon as the credits roll. We can discuss the injustice of it being overlooked for an Oscar some other time.

Now, what this did to my dad during his impressionable youth was two fold. First off, it made him a champ at the smack talk. I can see him crouching down behind home plate antagonizing the heck out of the batters and messing with their heads. "Is that your sister out in left field? Naked? You think she'd go out with me?" Warning them of the pitch that was about to come their way and laughing with each strike. Yup, that's my dad. Go golfing with him just one time. You'll see it.

Secondly, as with any baseball player, but especially the catchers, it made him crazy superstitious. Everything said and done on a winning day was continued until the luck was drained out of the ritual. If you wore a blue shirt and happened to lose a game that day, you would never dare dream of wearing that cursed shirt again. Even now you won't find him saying or doing anything that was done on one of his teams losing days. I would give you specifics, but that would be bad luck. You understand.

This is the trait that fortunately (you have to say fortunately when talking about superstition, right?) is the one that was passed on genetically to me. I'm no good at the trash talk, but boy do I have my superstitions. This was made very clear when we found out we were expecting our #5. Everyone would ask "What are you hoping for? Boy or girl?", and I would always reply with "Oh, it doesn't matter. As long as the baby is healthy and smaller than 8 pounds I will be happy". But really, I had my preference. I just didn't reveal that preference for fear of the jinx. I even had a name picked out for said preference, but I wouldn't tell Jeb what that was, and didn't let him know if it was a pink name or a blue name. No sense in tempting fate. We had to find out what we were having before I would breathe a word of it.

And then came the day of the ultrasound. Nervous doesn't come close to describing how I felt. This was the day that officially made me a mom of 5(!). I wasn't sure if I even wanted to go in that tiny, dimly lit room. I was having more than just doubts about my ability to do this again. Suddenly superstitions and preferences for gender were thrown out the window; and only then came the realization that healthy and growing well really were what I was hoping for. I knew that boy or girl wasn't important. We are being blessed with a new baby, and I am incredibly thankful for that. A whisper came of "everything will be okay, no matter the color of the blankets" and that brought me great comfort.

So, what did we see that day, you ask? Who wins the tie breaker?

Girls: 2

Boys: 3

Blue blankets it is. I think he'll be a catcher himself when he gets bigger. Hopefully without the mustache, though, but just as good a trash talker.