Photography Camp

For the first time, both my kids and I are experiencing sleep away camp this summer. My kids because they're actually there, and me because I'm realizing that they're no longer here.

But as many of the more seasoned sleep away parents have informed me, I don't have to miss them at all. This is due to the camps' highly extensive websites. Many, if not all of them, post hundreds of photos several times per day, and some even follow up with at least 2 daily videos.

So, I thought I would give it a try. With a simple password, I was granted access to five full days of over 1000 pictures. Pictures of girls playing volleyball and tennis; boys playing soccer and street hockey. Photos of girls cooking, swimming, and dancing. Snapshots of boys hitting baseballs, smacking a gaga ball, and sitting at campfires.

As I looked through several of these albums in search of my own children, I couldn't help but notice a common theme.

All these kids were posing.

They were posing at the pool, on the tennis courts, in the kitchen, at the computer station, while they were eating, and just about in any other area outside of their bunks.

I just can't imagine going to camp, getting involved in an activity and then being told, "wait...stop right there....and smile." "Could you three move closer together?" "Alright..you the tall one, you get in the middle, and you the little one...come down front."

The last time most of us were actively involved in a really good time, and then suddenly told to stop and pose was probably at our weddings. And if most of you can remember, you didn't like it very much. First it was those pre-game family shots, then the horrific table photos, and in total, hours of what Larry David would probably call, "the Stop and Pose." Thinking back to how annoying that was, I can only imagine what it's like in sleep away camp.

I took a closer look at the sea of digital photography. Wait a minute. I barely see my own kids. What are they not cute enough? Maybe that's one of them in the background on this one....Nope. Are they even at this camp? Did they pull a "Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah?" Do they already have an aversion to the Camp paparazzi? My attention was diverted when I looked at the top of the page and saw with just a click of the mouse, you can buy these pictures. Wow. I guess the camp dues just aren't enough to cover expenses.

But more importantly, where are my kids? Then it hit me. Maybe they feel like I do about all these pictures. Perhaps, just the thought of interrupting their cheeseburger with saying "cheese" just isn't their idea of a good time. After all, school is just around the corner. So who wouldn't want to savor every minute of this slice of heaven called "getting away from your parents."

All at once, I was proud of my two non-conformers. But every now and then, it would be nice to see them doing something at his camp other than ducking the cameras.

Maybe they'll show up tomorrow.

Field of Screams

I started playing baseball when I was 8 years old.

I'm not sure what originally attracted me to it, but I was certain it was something I couldn't live without. There was something beautiful and inexplicable about the sound that those old wood bats made when connecting perfectly with the ball. And better yet, how cool it was to slide into second just ahead of the throw when stretching a single into a double. And what kid could ever forget that feeling of being on the mound and striking out an opposing player on three consecutive pitches?(Don't worry, it didn't happen often).

But as good as all the memories were, there was still one that I wish I hadn't taken with me.

I'm not talking about the obvious like a season ending injury, an awful coach, or popping up with two outs and the bases loaded. This one trumped them all - -

Overzealous Parents.

They were always well represented on both sides, and they made sure their voices could be heard. Everyone was fair game. They yelled at the umpires, their Coach, the opposing Coach, and most importantly....their own children.

It was specifically their vicarious natures which forced them into a hypercritical mode. You just wanted to say, "Hey look, pal. You played baseball a long time, but those days are over. Now the next generation is picking up the mantle. So just sit back and keep your trap closed." Of course, the less than politically correct dialogue that actually swam through my head was much shorter and closer to "shut the F up."

So now that I have a daughter playing competitive softball, I'm prepared to keep my opinions to myself, especially when on the field. There's just one problem.

I can't.

Something just comes over me as soon as the ball is put into play. I yell where to throw the ball, or where a player should stand on the field. I scream about hitting the cut-off man (or woman), or holding onto the ball. And I'm not even the coach.

Have I now fallen into the same trap as the hoards of parents before me?

You're damn right. But it's not for the reasons you may think. I don't yearn to play girls softball, and I recognize that at 10 years old, this isn't exactly Triple-A ball. You see, the true essence of the problem is baseball itself.

Baseball plays more games than any other professional sport. It's the equaivalent of an NBA and an NHL season combined. So there's never been a shortage of exposure to the game. Also, between Little League and softball, I've been in hundreds of games myself over the course of a lifetime. After awhile, you've just seen everything. You've seen so much that you have insight into something before it even happens. And with that kind of knowledge, how could I keep it to myself? I'm compelled to share with the group.

My daughter doesn't want to hear it. Neither does her coach. So why do I continue to rant?

It's simple. I was an athlete. And athletes are born to compete. If you show up on a field, a rink, a court, or whatever, you're there for a single purpose. To win. It's in my DNA; programmed like a character in the Manchurian Candidate. There's the sound of bat hitting the ball, and my mouth just opens by itself.

You're here to win. If not, why would you play?

My daugther has found several other reasons. She has hot chocolate on the bench during the cold Saturdays of April. She gets to show off her new glove and cleats every season, and giggles with the other girls about who knows what as they stand around in the outfield.

She'd like to win. But if she doesn't, it's not an issue. There's always a playdate later that afternoon. She's just enjoying an afternoon in the sun with her friends. The game is secondary.

I wish it was for me. However, there is something positive to look forward to. My grandchildren won't be constantly critiqued by their Mother when they grow up.

I just can't say the same about their grandfather.