Part I: The Players
I’m sitting in a 300-square-foot room in the Comfort Suites in Kennewick, WA. The room has two queen-sized beds and one sofa bed–assembled to accommodate our third guest, my son’s teammate that came with us for this weekend excursion. With the three beds, a desk with a coffee maker on it, and a unit that functions as mini-fridge, microwave, dresser and TV stand, there is just enough room left for my 13 year old roommates to strew every article of baseball attire and wet swim shorts on the floor.
I look out the window at the surrounding strip mall. A Taco Bell, a Chipotle, and a Pancake House offer potential nourishment, while an urgent care facility stands by in case any of those dining options go awry.
The view isn’t unlike one I saw last week, staring out the window of a “family Mexican restaurant” in Redmond, WA, where I dined solo–dipping my tortilla chips into complementary bean dip while chaotic family dinners unfolded around me in the hour between drop-off and first pitch.
I am a baseball mom. This is my story.
That sounded dramatic. A lot of us are baseball (and soccer, basketball, volleyball, football, etc.) parents, shuttling our little prodigies from one remote tournament to the next. Nothing overly unique or dramatic about it.
When I first met Baseball Dad – Shane, for short – 24 years ago, he told me that he loves baseball. So, as any infatuated 23-year-old would do, I developed Project MLB: Must Learn Baseball, to understand his passion. I picked up the rules, stats, and fun vocabulary like “can of corn” and “full count.” We were good to go.
Then our first son, Max, was born. I’m pretty sure baseball is part of Max’s DNA. His first word was “ball!”, as he awkwardly lobbed an inflated ball across the room. At age 5, he constructed a 2’x4’ collage of all his favorite Mariners players and their stats, titled “M’s Baseball Museium”. By age 7 he knew every current MLB statistic, and by age 8 he knew every historical one too. It took until about age 9 before he could handle a Mariners loss without tears (if you’re a Mariner’s fan, you understand the volume of tears here).
Side note: now that Shane and Max are increasingly into watching football, I have also developed Project MILF: Must I Learn Football? It’s a nice program that involves eating snacks and watching the Puppy Bowl… applications open.
When Max was 12, he joined a prestigious select team, Sting Baseball.
The decision to become a select baseball parent is a calculated one. One one hand, it’s expensive AF, will take all your evenings and weekends, and – particularly in the Pacific Northwest – get you to purchase items like full-body sleeping bag jackets and covered bleacher seats. On the other hand, it’s wholesome, adorable and offers a healthy outlet for teamwork and discipline.
So generally speaking, if your kid wants to dedicate their life to the sport, you do what you need to do to support it.
Which brings us to these treks across the state and country to… play baseball!
Yesterday after school and work, we set out to make it over a snowy mountain pass before dark. I took this weekend journey because Shane snagged the sunny slot—taking Max to Arizona for next weekend’s tournament—and our younger son, Arlo, isn’t on board with constant baseball-watching (unless a baseball player is a Fortnite character).
On the way over, Max and his friend, Kyler, serenaded me with R&B and hip-hop. They started a contest, where they’d play me two songs – one from each of their respective playlists – and have me pick my favorite. A point was awarded to the boy whose playlist that favorite came from. We pulled up to the Comfort Suites at a tie, so the competition will need to resume on the drive back.
We stopped for dinner in Yakima, “the Palm Springs of Washington.” While I pleaded for bottomless breadsticks at Olive Garden, the boys won the majority vote with Dairy Queen. Which, to be fair, does offer a mint oreo Blizzard to write home about.
When we got to the hotel, there were already 3 team members visible, taking pictures of themselves in front of some fancy Porsch that was parked in front. I’m sure their Instagram feeds will be “bussin'” with those pics!
No sooner had we gotten our room and set up the third bed, when the team group text started to blow up. They had big plans to run down the halls yelling and go swimming in the 24-hour pool. So there I was, alone in my room at the Comfort Suites (which isn’t actually a suite, just a beige hotel room with an empty mini fridge) for the evening.
I’ve always held a lot of identities: tech exec, artist, writer, and aerialist, to name a few. But none of those set me up to be a hardcore baseball enthusiast. Ten years ago, I never would have predicted spending weekends in Eastern Washington to watch kids play baseball. Yet here I am, and surprisingly, I kind of love it.
Part II: The Game
We make our way across the street to the sports complex for the first day’s double-header. The weather app tells me that it’s currently 42 degrees, but that it feels like 27 degrees due to the extreme, tumbleweed-blowing winds. These are the boys’ first tumbleweed sightings and they’re pretty excited by them!
The opposing team is local, and apparently accustomed to this level of wind. They have individual-sized, clear pop-up tents that each fan sits inside in their folding chair – antisocial and warm. They also have a pretty strong walk-out song game, including punny hits like All About that Bas[e] and Hit Me Baby One More Time. It occurs to me that Been Caught Stealing would make a good choice too – I’ll be sure to mention this clever idea to Max, so that he has another chance to dramatically roll his eyes at me.
The first game slips from a tie to a three-run loss in the final inning. But we rebound in the second game, which ends in the middle of the sixth inning with a three-run lead. Apparently we should have played to the end of the inning, because the run differential will determine our playing order the next day. Instead, the umpires spend so long debating protocol that time runs out–which means we have an 8:00 am game the next day. Thanks, umps.
It’s a widely known phenomenon that umps will sometimes make creative calls when it means they might have the opportunity to go home sooner. It’s also a lesser-known characteristic (and by lesser-known, I mean a personal hunch) that most umps are former pirates. That’s why regardless of the pitch, they always shout “Aaaargh” to indicate ball or strike.
We celebrate our win at the festive burger joint across the street, with pineapple mocktails for the players and margaritas for the parents. I’m getting to know this cohort of baseball parents better, and they’re pretty cool – I can handle a tournament season with these folks.
Our 1-1 tournament record means we’re in the Silver bracket on day two. This is an interesting tournament dynamic: the teams that lose the gold bracket played better than all the silver bracket teams on day one, but will go home empty handed. Whereas the best of the worst – the silver bracket winners – will leave with a medal.
As we settle into the first game on day two, we look back fondly at our former selves who thought yesterday’s wind was intense. Oh, how naive we were! Today, there is WIND. The kind of wind that sends two in‑play balls into foul territory, moves the pitcher’s hat to home base, and threatens to blow the other team’s single‑person tents away like something out of The Wizard of Oz.
Despite the very real risk of being blown back to where we came from, the team pulls off a 4-2 win. We’re going to the silver championships!
After a lunch of Taco Bell and a quick hot tub, the team shows up to said championships in their Bad News Bears era. Compared to the other team—pristine in pinstripes, matching baby blue socks, belts, and sleeves—we’re a low‑key mess. Names get confused as the boys layer on each other’s hoodies, shoes are untied, and wind remains a formidable opponent. We go into the final inning with a 2-10 deficit, and somehow manage to bring the score up to 6-10 before congratulating the pinstriped winners.
That’s a wrap for tournament 1 of 8 this season. The ballpark restrooms (which were lovely for their running water and cleanish demeanor) have already been locked, so two sweaty, uniformed teenagers pile into my car for the four-hour journey home.
As we approach Seattle, the boys remember that they need to break the tie on their Spotify playlist competition. Travis Scott narrowly wins out over Tyler the Creator, and Max ends up taking home a Win after all.
And I collapse into an 11‑hour sleep.
When I think about how baseball has changed me, I’m surprised by my own enthusiasm. I never thought I’d care so much about youth baseball beyond wanting my kid to be happy. But it turns out I really do care! I’ve made real friends in those bleachers, I’ve gotten genuinely invested in the games, and I love how baseball has become part of our family’s identity.
Those weekend tournaments and weeknight practices that once seemed like obligations have become something more – a community, a shared language, and an unexpected source of joy. And that might be the most surprising win of all.
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internal image Mac Jahn courtesy of author
“Baseball Moms” image by author
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