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 Articles & Stories |
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What is My Registration Fee Used For?
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The commitment of the multitude of volunteers required to manage and coach teams, operate the concession stand, and maintain order in the dugout is a key factor to the success of any baseball program. However, there are many expenses incurred as well. Registration fees, sponsorship fees, donations, and fundraising proceeds are collectively used to cover these.
Every year we sign a lease with the city and pay a fee for the fields. The lease reserves the fields within a specific time frame so we can set schedules without having to verify availability on a continuous basis. Because the fields are owned by the city they take care of general maintenance of the condition of the fields. However, we pay to have the fields lined for the games.
In addition, there are licenses and permits, health, property and liability insurance, and franchise fees which need to be paid annually. We also incur utility expenses which include electric, gas, telephone, and the security alarm. Funds are also disbursed to pay for uniforms, equipment, umpires, and trophies.
Like every business there are numerous smaller expenses like office supplies, post office box rental, postage, printing, advertising, and repairs.
Fossil Park is sometimes called on to host tournaments and in several years have sent teams to the State Tournaments. Both of these activities also pull from the collective pool of funds. So your registration fees and your support of fundraising activities help sustain and support the growth of the success of youth baseball here at Fossil Park.
Storytellers Needed
Remember the days when the concession stand was run out of the trunk of a car? Do you know someone who played ball at Fossil who went on to make successful contributions to the community through their chosen occupation? Do you know an individual with a long term commitment to the quality of youth baseball here at the park that you would like to see acknowledged? Did you witness or participate in the game of the decade?
Over the past forty years a lot of people have participated in a lot of games and created a lot of memories. Share those memories with new faces at Fossil or reminisce with old friends. Write the story yourself or tell it to someone and ask them to write it. But lets not let the stories become forgotten just because we didnt have a way to record them when they happened.
Whether you are a current or former member of Fossil Park Youth Baseball, this is your newsletter, and it should contain your stories.
Tale of a Sports Mom
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Its a chilly Saturday in May. I could be home sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the living room or curled up on the couch with a good mystery. Instead Im sitting on a cold metal bench in the stands of a baseball park in Kirkland, Washington. An icy wind creeps through my heavy winter jacket. I blow on my hands, wishing Id brought my woolen mittens.
Mrs. Bodmer? Its the coach my son Matthew admires so much that he gave up soda pop to impress him with his fitness. Im starting your son today in right field. Hes worked hard this year and I think he deserves the opportunity.
Thanks, I say, feeling proud of my son who has given this man and this team everything he has. I know how badly he wants this. Im glad his hard work is being rewarded.
Suddenly Im nervous for him as the team members, in their white pinstriped uniforms, trot onto the field. I search for my sons number. It isnt there. Instead, Eddie, the most inexperienced player on the team, takes right field. I look again, unbelieving. How can that be?
I want to run over and ask the coach whats going on, but I know Matthew wouldnt like that. Ive learned the proper etiquette for moms; talking to the coach is not acceptable unless he initiates it.
My son, gripping the chain-link fence in front of the dugout, is yelling encouragement to his teammates. I try to read his expression, but I know he, like most males, has learned to hide his feelings. My heart breaks because he worked so hard and received so much disappointment. I dont understand what drives boys to put themselves through this.
Atta Boy, Eddie, yells the right-fielders father, proud that his son is starting. Ive seen this same man walk out of games in disgust when his son dropped a ball or made a bad throw. But for now, he is proud of his son, who is starting, while my son is on the bench.
By the fourth inning my fingers are stiff from the cold and my feet are numb, but I dont care. Matthew has been called in the game. He stands, chooses a batting helmet, picks up a bat and struts out to the plate. I grip the metal seat. He takes a couple of practice swings. The pitcher looks like an adult. I wonder if anyone has checked his birth certificate.Strike one. Nice swing! I yell. The next pitch is a ball. Good eye! Good eye! Strike two. I pray. I cross my fingers. The pitcher winds up. I hold my breath. Strike three. My sons head hangs, and he slowly walks back to the dugout. I wish with all my heart I could help. But I know theres nothing I can do.
For eight years Ive been sitting here. Ive drunk gallons of terrible coffee, eaten tons of green hot dogs and salty popcorn. Ive endured cold and heat, wind and rain.
Some people may wonder why a sane person would go through this. Its not because I want to fulfill my dream of excelling at sports through my kids. I also dont do this for the emotional highs. Of, yes, Ive had some. Ive seen my two sons score winning goals in soccer, hit homeruns in baseball, and spark come-from-behind wins in basketball. Ive seen them make some incredible leaping catches in football. But mostly Ive seen heartache.
Ive waited with them for that phone call telling them theyd made the team. The call that never came. Ive watched coaches yell at them. Ive watched them sit on the bench game after game. Ive sat in the emergency rooms as broken bones were set and swollen ankles x-rayed. Ive sat here year after year, observing it all and wondering why.
The game ends. I stretch my legs and try to stomp life back into my frozen feet. The coach meets with the team. They yell some rallying cry and then descend on their parents. I notice Eddies dad has a big grin and is slapping his son on the back. Matthew wants to get a hamburger. While I wait for him, the coach approaches me. I cant bring myself to look at him.
Mrs. Bodmer, I want you to know thats a fine young man you have there.
I wait for him to explain why he broke my sons heart.
When I told your son he could start, he thanked me and turned me down. He told me to let Eddie start, that it meant more to him.
I turn to watch my son stuffing his burger into his mouth. I realize then why I sit in the stands. Where else can I watch my son grow into a man?
By Judy Bodmer
From Chicken Soup for the Mothers Soul
Copyright 1997 Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jennifer Read Hawthome, and Ron Marci Shimoff
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