Today was the last day before spring break. A lot of parents think that we don’t do much on such days and so they keep their kids home or leave early for vacation. Such thinking is as annoying as it is inaccurate. My fifth grade students were kicking ass today--discussing the ethics of buying imported clothes, exploring the mysteries of pi, debating whether they’re Rebels or Loyalists in our Revolutionary War study. I appreciated their collective effort (in addition to their mere presence) and decided they deserved extra recess after lunch.
As the kids poured onto the playground, the kickball contingent was one person short so they asked me to play. I love playing kickball, yet I don’t want to steal anyone’s fun, so I let Henry pitch and I let Linda catch the pop up near second, and when I’m up I give it a 3/4 kick. But when I’m rounding first the Mets pop into my mind. Reyes stretching a single into a double. Victor Diaz lumbering home with the winning run. It’s the aggressive, ‘We dare you’ Mets of 2005 that I’m picturing as I head toward second. Willie Randolph’s Mets; the most exciting 4-5 team in baseball history, a team that is either going to win the late, close game or lose in an ugly blow out. Before I realize it, I’m half way to third. Davey’s thrown the ball to Gretchen in the infield and the logical thing for me to do is to retreat to second. But where’s the fun in that? Carlos wouldn’t stop, why should I? I keep running, and Gretchen’s face lights up: she’s going to help get her teacher out. Gretchen throws the ball, on the money, to Gary at home. The whole class is yelling, gathering near the plate. I see that Gary’s blocking the dish, so I weave a bit to his right. He bobbles the throw, but I can’t dodge the ball as it squirts out of his hands. The ball brushes my shoulder and I’m out. Davey, Gretchen, Gary, and their teammates celebrate like the Red Sox on 10/27. Henry and Linda and their teammates are doubled over in laughter.
Is it too early to unfurl my “Ya Gotta Believe” banner?