Muppets and Baseball
“Why are there so many songs about rainbows?” asked the indomitable Kermit. “Rainbows are visions, but only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide.”
Great tune. I have a related question: Why aren’t there any songs about parents whose affection for their children is contingent on their kids being admitted to highly selective colleges? I’m thinking the paucity of good rhymes for “Dartmouth” probably isn’t the relevant answer.
I love my kid for what they do rather than who they are begins well before admissions decisions descend on the inbox. Misguided parents start sliding down the slippery slope of “if onlies” all along the way. If only my infant would sleep through the night; if only my child were potty trained; if only my child had an A in algebra; if only my child were admitted to Tulane; if only my child were graduated at the top of her medical school class; if only my child gave me nine grandchildren all of whom were named after me.
There are any number of paradigms where performance is not only pertinent but paramount. Are you frequently able to turn a 93 mile-per-hour fastball into a 380-foot home run? If not, then you cannot be a major league baseball player. Your dreams of an eight million dollar a year salary and endless accolades from adoring fans will remain unrealized. Eager 12-year-olds will not be lining up for your autograph.
But a quick calculation suggests that there are some 330 million Americans who are not major league baseball players, many of whom presumably manage to get through the day, have families, make meaning, live their lives.
So let’s consider each scenario. One: You insist that your son is dead to you unless and until he hits 30 home runs in his MLB rookie season with the world champion Dodgers. And he does make the team and smack all those dingers. I suppose this outcome has its advantages—seats on the third-base side, your name in the paper. But I’m not sure about the relationship between you and your champion son. I am certain that if he falls short—earning only three million dollars a year or hitting a lousy 20 homeruns for example—your connection with your son is going to the kind of relationship you wouldn’t waste a bullet on but would take out behind the band and beat to death with a shovel.
Hyperbole aside, affection contingent on performance is fraught. Scenario Two: you love the kid you have. You celebrate her victories, help her process her setbacks. You remember the promise you made when her mother got the epidural: Ten fingers and ten toes. That’s all I ask.
Because sitting on the couch reading story books with your kid doesn’t cost anything, is always available, and doesn’t require you to find a rhyme for Dartmouth.
