When I was younger, I earned an allowance. Just like most kids.
My parents - like most parents - wanted to teach me the value of a dollar. They wanted to impress upon me the value of a hard day's work. And they wanted me to feel the exhilaration of earning my own keep.
But, most importantly, I think they just wanted me to be a good softball pitcher.
My friends from school earned their allowance by doing various chores around the house: taking out the trash, washing the dishes, cleaning their rooms, mowing the yard, raking leaves, doing the laundry...
I earned my allowance by pitching strikes.
No, my parents weren't diehard sports fans. And they certainly weren't those intense, Type A control freaks who take children's sports way beyond the extreme. They weren't reliving their youth through me, or basking in the glow of my pre-teen successes.
But they were creative enough to incorporate an incentive into my softball practices. And money, needless to say, was a huge incentive.
It all started with ten cents a strike.
I can still picture my mother sitting cross-legged in our garage on an old lawn chair, her back ramrod straight, a notepad and pen clutched professionally in her hand, an encouraging smile on her face... And my dad, of course, anxiously pacing, pacing, pacing - and critiquing my every pitch with keen, watchful eyes.
My target was an old drywall tarp that my dad had hung in the garage. The strike zone was a carefully measured, perfectly centered splash of green paint. Whenever one of my pitches hit that particular spot, my mother would make a mark. Check, check. Twenty cents. Check, check, check. Another thirty cents.
After pitching close to one hundred and fifty pitches a day, it wasn't long before I was raking in the dough. Needless to say, I became a very accurate pitcher.
Eventually my mother had the bright idea of toting her little notebook along to my games and recording my strikeouts. Those were worth a whole dollar. I remember one tournament in particular where I pitched close to seven games in three days. On the way home, I not only clutched a trophy in my hand, but a cool seventy-five bucks as well.
Up until I was fourteen, that was how I earned my allowance. Pitch by pitch. Strike by strike.
It was a fun way to make money.
Today, as I flipped through my file of photographs and polished various prints, I was reminded of those glory days when I earned my allowance by doing something that I loved. I was fortunate enough to be able to develop a skill while keeping my pockets full. And now, sixteen years later, I've found another fun way to do the same thing.
My store on Etsy will be opening in June. With a little luck and a whole lot of positive thinking, it should prove to be another way to develop a skill while keeping my pockets full.
Hey, those dimes add up.
__________________________
In honor of my dad, who gave up a lot so I could play softball for two teams, travel every weekend for All-Star tournaments, and buy the most expensive pair of cleats. He lost his battle with cancer when I was fourteen. After he was gone, the game was never quite the same...
Then I Became a Softball Dad
"I used to have a regular life. (Actually, many of my friends say that sentence should say, "I used to have a life", period.) It doesn't really seem that long ago. Then I became a Softball Dad.
My lawn used to be like a carpet. It was green, mowed, trimmed, fertilized, and watered. Any weeds that dared to show their leaves were pulled out by their roots. Now I have two big bare spots forty feet apart. I like the bare spots. I like them because they are the only places that the weeds and crab grass aren't threatening to take over.
My car used to draw admiring looks and comments. It was clean and waxed and shined and Armor All'd. Now it only draws attention when it wins the "dirtiest car in the parking lot" prize.
My friends and I used to spend Monday mornings talking about five-iron shots, three-putts, and titanium shafts. Now I bore them to death with detailed play-by-play descriptions of five or six low-scoring ball games. Somehow, they just don't understand the drama of a 2-0 game.
I used to think anything over $40 was an exorbitant price for a ball bat. Now the contents of my daughter's equipment bag are worth more than everything else in the car together - including clothes, jewelry, watches, and laptop computer.
I used to have a great wife. Still do, Thank God. But that's a tribute to her patience and good humor. We used to sit and talk for hours. We still do - to keep each other awake when we're headed home from a tournament in the wee hours of Monday morning. We used to wonder what the kids would do when they grew up. Now she wants to know what I'm going to do IF I ever grow up.
My summer casual wardrobe used to be made up of color-coordinated polo shirts, cool cottons in bright colors, and the occasional "aloha" shirt. Now I have a closet full of T-shirts in gray and red. Those that don't have COMETS on the front have a cute saying on the back, like "If You Follow Me Long Enough, You'll End Up at a Ball Field." or "Friends Don't Let Friends Play Slowpitch."
I used to glue myself to the sofa and watch the NCAA basketball tournament and the Masters from opening Ceremony through network sign off. Now, I catch the highlights on Sportscenter.
I used to be one of the tops in my field. Thank goodness, I still am.
(You have to keep a good paycheck coming in if you want to support a Tournament Softball habit!)
I used to have sympathy for umpires. I used to think boys were tough. I used to think a double-header was a long day at the ballfield. Now we're just getting warmed up.
We used to spend our summer vacation relaxing on the beach or visiting family. Now we hit the road every weekend with 40 of our closest friends.
I used to think the ideal woman had brains and beauty. She still does, but now she better also be quick, courageous, and able to bunt a good rise ball.
I used to look for little restaurants that served seafood fresh off the boat. Now I'm a connoisseur of nachos and smoked sausages.
I used to be concerned that I would fall into the trap of living my life through my daughters. Now I know that I'm privileged to live my life WITH my daughters."
-- Author Unknown
My parents - like most parents - wanted to teach me the value of a dollar. They wanted to impress upon me the value of a hard day's work. And they wanted me to feel the exhilaration of earning my own keep.
But, most importantly, I think they just wanted me to be a good softball pitcher.
My friends from school earned their allowance by doing various chores around the house: taking out the trash, washing the dishes, cleaning their rooms, mowing the yard, raking leaves, doing the laundry...
I earned my allowance by pitching strikes.
No, my parents weren't diehard sports fans. And they certainly weren't those intense, Type A control freaks who take children's sports way beyond the extreme. They weren't reliving their youth through me, or basking in the glow of my pre-teen successes.
But they were creative enough to incorporate an incentive into my softball practices. And money, needless to say, was a huge incentive.
It all started with ten cents a strike.
I can still picture my mother sitting cross-legged in our garage on an old lawn chair, her back ramrod straight, a notepad and pen clutched professionally in her hand, an encouraging smile on her face... And my dad, of course, anxiously pacing, pacing, pacing - and critiquing my every pitch with keen, watchful eyes.
My target was an old drywall tarp that my dad had hung in the garage. The strike zone was a carefully measured, perfectly centered splash of green paint. Whenever one of my pitches hit that particular spot, my mother would make a mark. Check, check. Twenty cents. Check, check, check. Another thirty cents.
After pitching close to one hundred and fifty pitches a day, it wasn't long before I was raking in the dough. Needless to say, I became a very accurate pitcher.
Eventually my mother had the bright idea of toting her little notebook along to my games and recording my strikeouts. Those were worth a whole dollar. I remember one tournament in particular where I pitched close to seven games in three days. On the way home, I not only clutched a trophy in my hand, but a cool seventy-five bucks as well.
Up until I was fourteen, that was how I earned my allowance. Pitch by pitch. Strike by strike.
It was a fun way to make money.
Today, as I flipped through my file of photographs and polished various prints, I was reminded of those glory days when I earned my allowance by doing something that I loved. I was fortunate enough to be able to develop a skill while keeping my pockets full. And now, sixteen years later, I've found another fun way to do the same thing.
My store on Etsy will be opening in June. With a little luck and a whole lot of positive thinking, it should prove to be another way to develop a skill while keeping my pockets full.
Hey, those dimes add up.
__________________________
In honor of my dad, who gave up a lot so I could play softball for two teams, travel every weekend for All-Star tournaments, and buy the most expensive pair of cleats. He lost his battle with cancer when I was fourteen. After he was gone, the game was never quite the same...
Then I Became a Softball Dad
"I used to have a regular life. (Actually, many of my friends say that sentence should say, "I used to have a life", period.) It doesn't really seem that long ago. Then I became a Softball Dad.
My lawn used to be like a carpet. It was green, mowed, trimmed, fertilized, and watered. Any weeds that dared to show their leaves were pulled out by their roots. Now I have two big bare spots forty feet apart. I like the bare spots. I like them because they are the only places that the weeds and crab grass aren't threatening to take over.
My car used to draw admiring looks and comments. It was clean and waxed and shined and Armor All'd. Now it only draws attention when it wins the "dirtiest car in the parking lot" prize.
My friends and I used to spend Monday mornings talking about five-iron shots, three-putts, and titanium shafts. Now I bore them to death with detailed play-by-play descriptions of five or six low-scoring ball games. Somehow, they just don't understand the drama of a 2-0 game.
I used to think anything over $40 was an exorbitant price for a ball bat. Now the contents of my daughter's equipment bag are worth more than everything else in the car together - including clothes, jewelry, watches, and laptop computer.
I used to have a great wife. Still do, Thank God. But that's a tribute to her patience and good humor. We used to sit and talk for hours. We still do - to keep each other awake when we're headed home from a tournament in the wee hours of Monday morning. We used to wonder what the kids would do when they grew up. Now she wants to know what I'm going to do IF I ever grow up.
My summer casual wardrobe used to be made up of color-coordinated polo shirts, cool cottons in bright colors, and the occasional "aloha" shirt. Now I have a closet full of T-shirts in gray and red. Those that don't have COMETS on the front have a cute saying on the back, like "If You Follow Me Long Enough, You'll End Up at a Ball Field." or "Friends Don't Let Friends Play Slowpitch."
I used to glue myself to the sofa and watch the NCAA basketball tournament and the Masters from opening Ceremony through network sign off. Now, I catch the highlights on Sportscenter.
I used to be one of the tops in my field. Thank goodness, I still am.
(You have to keep a good paycheck coming in if you want to support a Tournament Softball habit!)
I used to have sympathy for umpires. I used to think boys were tough. I used to think a double-header was a long day at the ballfield. Now we're just getting warmed up.
We used to spend our summer vacation relaxing on the beach or visiting family. Now we hit the road every weekend with 40 of our closest friends.
I used to think the ideal woman had brains and beauty. She still does, but now she better also be quick, courageous, and able to bunt a good rise ball.
I used to look for little restaurants that served seafood fresh off the boat. Now I'm a connoisseur of nachos and smoked sausages.
I used to be concerned that I would fall into the trap of living my life through my daughters. Now I know that I'm privileged to live my life WITH my daughters."
-- Author Unknown
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