Picking Splinters by Mike Hume

Send Stories for Mom

Every once in a while it can get a little lonely as a newspaper columnist. Sometimes, I wish I was on a radio talk show so callers with names like Vinny from the Bronx could ring in and give me their idiotic trade scenarios (I got it all figured out, Roger Clemens and Lance Berkman for Kevin Brown. Straight up.). Then I could gently tell them to not get their hopes up about becoming the next Brian Cashman.

I’ve been thinking about doing a write-in column every once and a while and I thought this week would be a good time to kick it off because I wanted to write about a topic that everyone can relate to: Mothers.

Yes, everyone has a mother and in honor of her big day on Sunday, I was hoping to hear a little bit about other people’s moms and how they have tied into the world of sports. For example, did your mother play any sports growing up? Was she any good? Did she support you in your desire to play sports? Was she like Livia Soprano and try to have you killed and buried in the endzone of Giants Stadium? Okay, maybe not so much that last one, at least not for Mothers Day. (Wait a week, then send it in and I’ll split the Pulitzer money with you.)

My point is, I want to hear about your lives. And for those of you who have a tendency to be the ones scribbling a note to your Mom on the back of a piece of printer paper at 8 a.m. on Sunday morning (you know who you are), this could be the perfect gift idea to redeem yourself for all those years of thoughtless neglect. And in case you needed another reminder, she carried you for nine months!

My Mom was never an Olympic athlete. She dabbled in diving and even in fencing but most of her athletic contributions during my lifetime came in the form of support on the sidelines. And to be fair, this is an aspect that tends to go unrecognized.

Think about it, would you willingly trade 3-4 hours of your day to schlepp someone to a game so you can watch them run around, or in some case pick dandelions, while you sat on the sidelines? It would be one thing if you were David Beckham’s mom and you were treated to some elite competition every now and then, but I’ve played in, coached and covered many of these types of games and words associated with Real Madrid have seldom come to mind in my descriptions of them.

Nevertheless, moms, like my mom, are there. In fact, she was always there.

She was there in the stands when I first started playing baseball, standing barely taller than the batting tee. And she was there in my final high school at-bat when I hit a home run. And you can always pick out your mom’s voice in the crowd. It really is like a homing beacon, with the emphasis on “home.”

She always supported me, even when I didn’t particularly want, or deserve it. In that same final high school game, I committed an error on a ground ball with two outs in the top of the last inning to give the opposing team a two-run lead. But when I got in the car with her afterwards she just wanted to talk about my home run, only the second of my 12-year baseball career.

My mom has always gone out of her way to try to fit in to my sports-dominated life, even if it makes her look a bit foolish at times. My Dad ribs her endlessly when she pluralizes Madison Square Garden. (“There aren’t any hanging flowers there, Kathy. Mark Messier and Patrick Ewing don’t go there to stroll through the tulips.”) But still, she tries.

She tries to read up on the Yankees and since I started going to Georgetown she’s followed the basketball team as closely as I have. When I was on the road and the Hoyas were tied with Villanova in the second half, she called me and put the phone up to the radio speaker so I could listen to the final-second victory secured by Darrel Owens’ foul shots.

Nowadays she even tries to relate to my Dad and my fantasy baseball team. I mean she must really love me to try to get up to speed on what my friend Jess calls my “make believe team.”

The thing about this that’s so hard is that you know what an effort this is for her. And you have no idea how to thank her for it.

At first, when you think about it, it feels like this treatment should be obligatory. I mean, she’s your Mom. But when you hear about some other mothers, mothers more in the Livia Soprano mold, then you really start to appreciate how amazing she really is for making these kinds of sacrifices in order to relate to her son, who generally, and foolishly, only shows his appreciation once a year with a spa certificate, maybe some flowers and the aforementioned hastily scrawled note on computer paper.

It’s amazing what she’s done in support of me and my athletic pursuits. If the tables were turned, I’m not so sure I’d be able to do the same. I mean, watching an entire episode of “As the World Turns” just to have a five-minute conversation about it? Give me dandelion-picking soccer kids any day. Even throw in a few skinned knees and dirty uniforms, I don’t care, just don’t subject me to Soap Operas.

So I urge you all to share your stories with the paper. It might not be much in repayment of this huge debt, but it’s a start. Anything I receive I’ll include in next week’s column. You might not think about it now, but after Sunday’s Post-It Note card falls a little short of the mark, I’ll be here for you. Of course, if you still don’t want to make that effort, you could always watch “As the World Turns” for a prolonged period of time. Say, nine months?

Mike Hume may be emailed here.