Heckling from the peanut gallery

We had front row seats to (what was supposed to be) an exciting baseball game between two rival teams. The stands were full of supporting fans, half for our side, and half for the evil enemy. Everything was fine until the opposing pitcher threw the first pitch of the game. "Ball one!" shouted the umpire. Perfect call. Clearly missed home plate.

Obviously not in the eyes of the young man standing on the mound. His mouth dropped, he glared at the umpire, and then he threw his arms out, palms up, sort of like he was getting ready to take off in flight. And if that weren't enough, he paced around the pitching rubber like a caged animal.

I had never witnessed such immaturity and was shocked the umpire didn't warn the pitcher that such behavior would not be accepted. Two pitches later--same thing, only this time the pitcher made the flappy motion to his dugout, imploring intervention from his coach.

What happened next was a shock to all of us, especially my grandkids and their parents who were seated beside me.

"Quit your whining!" someone screamed. And I do mean "SCREAMED."

I looked around, embarrassed for the obnoxious fan who had the nerve to make such a scene.

I was the only one peering into the stands.

Everyone else was staring at me. How weird was that!

It took me a few seconds to realize that those words had come, not from a fan behind me, but from my very own mouth.

Even the pitcher paused to stare.

It's times like these that present the best teaching moments, wouldn't you agree? I now had a choice. I could either apologize to everyone--especially my family-- for my behavior, or I could just sit there quietly and keep my mouth shut for the rest of the game.

I did neither.

For the next several innings, this pitcher provoked me. If his teammate made an error, he would point his glove at the poor guy and shake his head, as if to totally humiliate the dejected soul. Every time the umpire called a ball, the little whiner threw a hissy fit...and so did I. It seemed that once my verbal barn door was open, there was no shutting it.

At one point the catcher actually cocked his head to stare at me. He seemed to be an okay guy--I had nothing against him, but I did feel it was my duty to point the blame where it belonged: "He's a big baby." I instructed the masked intruder. "Tell him to grow up."

Their manager (the pitcher's father, as it turned out) was also my target. "Get your son under control." "You put up with this? Shame on you."

Sadly, the pitcher was extremely talented. He threw hard and could also hit, but I knew he didn't have the mental makeup to become a professional. His father obviously had done nothing to teach his son the importance of teamwork and attitude. At the age of twelve, he was certainly old enough to know how to behave.

Since my grandson, Logan, was on the other team, I had a personal stake in the outcome of this game. Following our loss to this obnoxious kid, we folded up our lawn chairs and headed for the car. It wasn't until we were on our way home that it hit me how immature and unchristian I had behaved. Had Dave been with me, I would have never acted that way. Actually, it's probably better that he never hear this story.

Some things are just not to be shared, don't you agree?