My mom used to say she wished she could have stayed 35 years old for a decade or more. Stopping time would be pretty cool.
One day last week, I realized it's April. Which means in a few weeks, high school graduates will be receiving their diplomas.
Time: the only thing we can't seem to control.
My own kids are getting older, too. The older one, in fact, will be eligible to drive in a year or two — not that he's remotely close to knowing how to work the blinker, much less turn on the ignition.
After all, he can barely drive the riding lawn mower.
Three weeks ago, at a little league board meeting, coaches were being selected for the upcoming season. It was painful not jumping up or asking to coach a team.
I tried hard to convince my wife I needed to coach this season. But she gave that look ... the same one I get when I yell at the TV during an Astros game.
She's right, of course. Between covering high school sports in the spring, my own two kids' baseball teams, summer basketball camps, and weekend travel ball trips to Springdale and Rogers, time is of the essence.
It doesn't hurt to reminisce.
I remember the first time my 14-year-old (then 5) reached first base in his first T-ball game. We lost the game, 8-4. To the Yankees, or as he called them, the "'Ankees."
But later that year, after I figured out baseball at 5 is the same at 15, when placed my three best fielders at pitcher, second and first base, we beat the Yankees, 11-10.
I also figured out that staggering the lineup in T-ball gave my two best hitters an opportunity to drive in a lot of runs.
Three years ago, when my younger son was in his last year of T-ball, I fielded questions from perplexed kindergartners and first-graders asking, "Can I be on the little hill?" Meaning the pitcher's mound, of course.
Ah, fun times.
I didn't win a single championship during my four years as a T-ball coach. One year, in 2009, we lost our first postseason game, 7-2, because the pitcher on the other team fielded every ground ball and ran our little kids down.
This really frustrated me, of course. Being a baseball purist, I made my players throw the ball to first base.
Winning is pretty awesome. But, with T-ball, no one ever knows the score.
Once, after terrorizing the poor Canes, one of my players asked me as we were about to shake hands if we had won.
I didn't have the heart to tell him we'd won 22-2. Which in T-ball means the poor Canes were like the '62 Mets.
So, as the weather finally begins to warm, the grass turns green, and high school players prepare to graduate, hold on to the memories.