Tag Archives: baseball

Let’s look out for each other.

My faith in humanity was severely shaken on Thursday evening.

You see, my kids were in a bike accident.

But, before you get too worried as you read my words, let me assure you that they are now both completely fine. However, on Thursday night I wasn’t so sure…..

My daughter had a baseball game at a nearby ball diamond, and my husband had another commitment that evening, so the kids and I biked over to enjoy a gorgeous Summer evening outside. After the game, the three of us rode home as a convoy on the sidewalk; me in the front, my five-year-old daughter behind me, and my eight-year-old son bringing up the rear. We were three-quarters of the way home, almost finished our short five-minute ride, when I heard a crash and a scream. I was only a couple of bike lengths ahead, and as I quickly stopped and turned, I saw both kids laying on the ground, bikes twisted, backpacks scattered, both of their mouths open, howling in pain. I ran to them immediately, yanking my folding chair straps off my shoulders, throwing my gear, and scanning the scene as my emotions built and my heart raced.

My daughter was lying at the bottom of the pile, her head turned away from me, crying loudly. As I approached, my son pulled himself off of her and I yanked his bike to the side. His cries, however, were frantic and distraught, and he was writhing and gripping his abdomen. My gut instinct told me that he was more seriously hurt, so I tended to him first. “My ribs, my ribs,” he was screaming, and I knelt on the sidewalk to hold him and try to offer some comfort. I called to my daughter from my crouched position on the ground, and she got up and crawled to me, desperately hanging onto my other shoulder, sobbing.

This entire sequence had taken less than a minute, when a neighbor across the street came to offer his help. “I heard the crash and saw you running,” he said, “is there anything I can do?” By that point, my son was standing, squirming, clutching his stomach, his panicked cries not slowing down. Over the next few seconds, I was able to decipher that the “rib” he was referring to was actually his lower abdomen, and that his bike wheel had turned as he fell, causing him to land belly-first into the blunt end of his handlebar. As my mind raced with right lower quadrant anatomy, the complications of blunt force trauma, and first-aid protocols, I thanked my neighbor, and assured him I could manage. Both kids were still wailing, but we were just around the corner from our house, and my main concern was to get them back home where I could better assess and tend to them.

The neighbor walked away reluctantly, leaving me amidst a 10-metre swath of bikes, lawn chairs, backpacks, and ball gloves. Our things were strewn along the sidewalk and the roadside, and in the middle of it all, I huddled on bare knees, with one kid in each arm, calming them, cuddling them, tears streaming down all of our cheeks.

Two separate cars drove past us, slowly, down our sleepy suburban street, seeing the carnage of the crash. They didn’t stop or offer assistance. Minutes passed and my kids continued to cry. I buried my face in their hair, in their necks, breathing them in, thinking about what should be my next logical step, grateful that the accident hadn’t been worse. When I looked up, two people out for a walk were passing by. They weaved in and out of our mangled bikes, stepped over bags, and continued to walk. They did not look at me. They did not offer to help. They walked right past us.

We got ourselves home, pushing bikes instead of riding them; partly due to pain, partly due to fear, mostly due to bent derailleurs and broken pedals. I phoned my mother-in-law, a retired nurse, to get her opinion as to whether or not a hospital visit was warranted; there was no abdominal rigidity, no vomiting, no blood in his urine, so we decided it wasn’t. I tended to the kids with warm baths and ice packs and tucked them into my bed so that I could keep an eye on them both throughout the night. My husband arrived home later that evening to a shaken wife and an angry rehashing of the accident. My fear and my panic had settled, and had blended together into rage and disbelief about the people that passed us by.

I can only hope that they chose not to stop because they thought I had the situation handled. I can’t let cynicism overtake me, and believe that they chose not to stop simply because they didn’t want to. I believe that people are good, and I believe that bad situations often teach us something. This was no exception. Let’s offer help. Let’s offer kindness. Let’s look out for each other.

Friday morning revealed a scrape on my daughter’s shoulder, an ugly purple circle on my son’s belly, and many recounts about how the accident happened and what we could do differently the next time (i.e. stopping too quickly and following too closely). We talked about the nice man who came from across the street to lend a hand. And we talked about the people who didn’t.

“You must be the change you want to see in the world.” ~Mahatma Gandhi

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It’s April! It’s sports!

I live in a competitive household.  Case in point, the recent CrossFit Open competition that my husband and I participated in.  I won.  Ahem.  Cough, cough.

The upcoming NHL playoffs bring out our competitive nature as well, especially since our loyalties lie on polar opposite ends of the fan spectrum.  I’m from Southern Alberta, and the Flames are my team, while he’s a true-blue Leaf fan, born and raised in the GTA, where Stanley Cup parades are planned every October.  Our children are not immune to this rivalry, and they’ve staunchly aligned themselves with their same-gendered parent, although my five-year-old daughter has been known to change her team weekly.  Her Uncle’s influence makes her a current Oiler fan.  I often joke about how my husband says the kids can “cheer for any team they like,” and then boos and moans if that team is any other than the blue and white.

But the reality is, April is the best sports month of the year.  The Flames have clinched, and we might have six Canadian teams lacing up in the playoffs.  Let’s not forget the Raptors, who’ve also guaranteed themselves a spot in the NBA post-season.  The BlueJays have just begun, it’s Master’s weekend ahead, the Boston Marathon runs on April 17th, and the NCAA basketball champion was crowned last night.  Whew!  ‘Tis a great time to be a sports fan.

And if you need another visual, take a look at our rainy driveway this morning: a Leaf flag on his car, a Flames flag on mine.  


“Being a sports fan is a complex matter, in part irrational but not unworthy; a relief from the seriousness of the real world, with its unending pressures and often grave obligations.” ~ Richard Gilman  

#goJaysgo #goFlamesgo 

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Game 4

If you follow my blog, or know me personally, you will know that I am a Toronto Blue Jays fan.  I grew up in a very sporty family, and even got to go to a game (all the way from lil’ ol’ rural Alberta) in 1993, when the last wave of Blue Jay fever was gripping Canadians.

I met my Jays-loving husband in 2004, and we have been to a game or two every year since, and started taking our children to games every Summer since they were tiny babes.  This year, we’ve upped our fanship significantly; we’ve probably watched 50 games on TV and been to five regular season games up close and personal.  Our children both have Blue Jays posters on their bedroom walls, my son can name every player, number, and position, and my four-year-old daughter will happily tell you every pitcher on the roster and how Osuna is mommy’s favourite.  We play backyard baseball in rain or shine, argue over the strike zone at our local ball diamond, and talk Blue Jays over breakfast nearly every day.  Am I painting a picture for you?  You see, we’re all in.

That’s why today is such a special day.

We’re taking our kids to the ALCS Game 4 this afternoon.  And the best part is, they don’t even know it yet; it’s a complete surprise.

It’s quite a surprise to me too, as the possibility of going to this game wasn’t even on our radar until yesterday.  But I don’t work on Tuesday afternoons, and a 4:08pm first pitch works well for families.  “This is our chance to take them to a playoff game,” I texted my husband.  “Let’s do it,” he said.

So, with falling prices on StubHub and a slightly early school pickup, we’ll be there this afternoon.  We’re raising sports fans, and this experience won’t be forgotten by any of us anytime soon.

This is #OurMoment.

 

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