Tag: Sophia

I Need a New Butt

Some stories are ridiculous.

Some people are far removed from sanity.

Some organizations function without common sense.

Welcome to a story about those people and one of those organizations.

Toby Price was an assistant principal at Gary Road Elementary School in Byram, Mississippi.

The principal of Gary Road Elementary was supposed to read to a second-grade class via Zoom. For whatever reason, the principal could not participate. Mr. Price contacted the principal via text message and was told, “well, go ahead and read.”

The assistant principal chose to read, “I Need a New Butt” by Dawn McMillan.

After the Zoom meeting, Assistant Principal Price was told to report to the Hinds County School district office and was placed on administrative leave.

Superintendent Dr. Delesicia Martin issued a letter of termination, saying the assistant principal “did not demonstrate professional standards or maintain an environment free from unnecessary embarrassment or disparagement.” According to WLBT, Dr. Martin also wrote that Price showed “a lack of professionalism and impaired judgment.”

“I Need a New Butt” is classified as a children’s book and is published by Dover Publications.

Some organizations. Some people. Some stories.

During Sophia’s kindergarten adventure, one of our favorite events was the “letter of the week.” It was pretty simple. And a LOT of fun.

The teacher would proclaim a letter for the “letter of the week” honors. Each child would bring an item to school, beginning with the assigned “letter of the week,” and share it with the class.

For example, a kindergartner could bring crayons for “C” or grapes for “G” or Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls for “L” or “D” or “S” or “C” or “R.”

You get the point.

We didn’t want Sophia’s items to be ordinary. Where is the fun in doing what everybody else is doing? Why be plain when you can be extraordinary? Dare to be different. Bold.

Robert Frost challenged us to explore the road not taken.

So be it. Right on, Mr. Frost.

The letter of the week was “W.”

Watermelon? Bottles of water? We don’t have a pet woodpecker and a class full of whistles felt like an egregiously bad idea.

Wine!

Not wine for grownups.

Kid wine. Grape juice.

We sent Sophia to school with several bottles of Welch’s Sparkling Grape Juice and plastic cups.

The teacher loved it. A few parents complained.

Fine. We won’t send anymore wine to school.

Especially not to Gary Road Elementary School in Byram, Mississippi.

For Toby Price and Delesicia Martin and parents threatened by the presence of sparkling grape juice in a kindergarten classroom…

I proudly present my performance of “I Need a New Butt.”

The Lion King

The Lion King.

Circle Of Life. Hakuna Matata. James Earl Jones. Simba. Elton John.

That’s about it. I didn’t know much else. I have not seen the animated version. The live action version of the film was ridiculously wonderful.

The national tour visited Tanger Center in Greensboro. Cool. We’ll go. We went.

I want Sophia and Miles to love musicals as much as I love musicals. I can’t force them, but I hope. We’ll see if they tap their toes or fall asleep before intermission.

I wanted it to be great. I wanted it to be spectacular. I wanted the audience to roar. I wanted the drums to pound. I wanted to be knocked out of my seat. I wanted the cast to have the performance of a lifetime. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.

Oh, my. I needn’t worry. Everything for which I wanted, delivered. Again, again and again.

It was great. It was spectacular. The audience roared. The drums were pounding. THE LION KING was fit for royalty.

I knew the setting was the grasslands of Africa. That was not a surprise. I did not expect to encounter the depth and influence of African culture throughout the production.

It was a glorious celebration wrapped in the traditions and folktales of Africa.

The music and vocal performances were breathtaking. It was every bit as magical as I imagined it could be.

The ensemble danced from a collective soul. It was full of life, grief and love.

Technically, there were no mistakes. Every light cue, every drum beat, every thread of fabric, every stroke of makeup. Every element was exactly as it should have been. I rarely use the word, but… it was perfection.

If anything, THE LION KING brings all the elements of storytelling together in a collaboration that stands the test of time.

Spoken word. Dance. Music. Puppetry. Art. It’s all there.

It’s a landmark production. The accolades are well-deserved. The ovation wasn’t long enough.

One of the best nights I’ve spent in a theatre in a long time.

We clapped. Toes tapped. Sophia and Miles sang all the way home.

Thank you, cast and crew of THE LION KING. Thank you. Bravo.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 2 of 2)

The PTA sponsors a yearly, nation-wide arts competition. Our children entered every year. Some projects turned out better than others. Oh well.

Competition is for horses, not artists. Nonetheless, Sophia and Miles entered. Many times. Many years.

They submitted entries in the creative writing category.

They’re our children and I’m biased. Absolutely. Guilty. I am their biggest critic and their loudest cheerleader.

The writing was extraordinary. The judging didn’t matter. I knew they had already won. Different grades meant different divisions meant two awards and two winners.

I told Vikki, “They’ve won. It’s so good, I can hardly stand it. She’ll win for her grade and he’ll win for his grade. I’m quite certain they’ll both win at the state level. We might have two national champions sleeping in this house.”

Was I expecting too much? Was my anticipation overtaking my common sense? I wondered.

I left our bed in the dark of night, retrieved my favorite red pen and printed a copy of their essays. I needed to be sure. I attacked their writing like I was the editor-in-chief of the New York Times.

Nope. I was right. The writing was THAT good. Well done, children. Well, freakin’, done.

Awards were announced and presented.

I damn-near fell out of my chair. No first place. No second place. No third place. No honorable mention. Nothing.

My head was spinning. I looked at Vikki.

“Did I miss something?”

I entertain an occasional conspiracy theory out of curiosity, but it’s hardly a guiding light.

Children with obvious connections to the PTA volunteers responsible for organizing the contest and judging the entries won multiple, first-place awards. Their friends and acquaintances occupied many spots on the list of honorees.

Would people actually do that? It seemed impossible. I couldn’t bring myself to think it, much less say it out loud.

Surely not. How ridiculous. I was left to my thoughts.

A trophy and a certificate don’t mean that much.

The backseat brigade was unusually quiet on the way home.

“Y’all, your writing is fantastic. Nothing changes that. You did great work. We’re proud of you.

Oh, and you don’t have to enter again. I don’t think it’s worth it. We can find another contest. If you want to.”

We went to Dari-O for ice cream. It soothes the soul.

My mama and I went to see HARPER VALLEY PTA in the summer of ‘78.

It was a movie about a single mother who takes on the Harper Valley Junior High School PTA. The heroine is ridiculed, dismissed, harassed and threatened by the PTA leadership because of how she chooses to live her life.

Barbara Eden was the star.

The theme song, performed by Jeannie C. Riley, is spectacular. Take a listen when you can.

Barbara Eden’s character dares to ruffle the feathers of those in charge and there is hell to pay.

It’s a movie with a message, whose time has finally come.

Whether it’s declining an offer of help because all that is really wanted is a signed check and quiet in the gallery…

Or manipulating the judging of an elementary contest so the kid with the most prestigious address can hang the blue ribbon on their bedroom wall…

Or refusing to meet with a fifth-grader who is asking for support to create a new event for classmates…

What’s right, is right. What’s wrong, is wrong.

You can be a Luebchow or a Yarborough or a Woodard.

Or, you can sign the card and join the Harper Valley PTA.

Make your choice.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 1 of 2)

My mama was indifferent when it came to the PTA. That’s Parent Teacher Association, for those playing along at home.

I vaguely recall the existence of an occasional PTA meeting in elementary school, but not much else.

It was a non-entity during junior high.

Julian Gibson, the legendary principal at North Forsyth High School, disbanded the PTA long, long ago because he felt they served no meaningful purpose.

That’s not to say parents didn’t help. The early musicals at North would not have happened without the heroic efforts of the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families, among many.

When Sophia entered kindergarten, Vikki and I joined the PTA. My mother and Vikki’s mother paid the membership fee and joined, too.

We were committed to doing everything we could do to help Sophia, her teachers and the school create the most spectacular environment possible.

Room parents. Special events. Fund raisers. We’ve helped where and when we can.

There is a yearly outreach to enlist volunteers and ideas to prepare for the next school year.

I replied.

“I’m willing to do this or that, either here or there, however and whenever it needs to be done. Have y’all thought about…?”

I’m seldom short of bright ideas. It comes with the territory of being Margaret’s son and growing up with Gretchen, Terry, John and Uncle Larry.

We think big.

We do things.

It’s how life goes.

My enthusiasm was tempered with a less-than-welcoming response on official PTA letterhead.

“Mr. Griffin, why don’t you leave the thinking to the ladies? We suggest you find some other fathers and do some landscaping around the school. Pick up sticks. That kind of thing. We’ll handle the rest.”

To say I was surprised would be an egregious understatement.

“Pick up sticks?”

Vikki doesn’t like it when I utter grownup words. She was not happy with my behavior that day. I had a lot to say.

Needless to say, I wasn’t done.

I wrote the principal and copied the PTA. Among other things, I asked the school administration to reach out to the PTA leadership and clarify the importance of offering fathers and grandfathers and uncles and brothers and coaches the opportunity to work and volunteer within an elementary school setting. The world needs reliable, responsible male role models.

That was a costly move.

We were effectively shunned. Friends stopped answering our phone calls. Text messages were blocked. Invitations to the pool ceased.

My wife lost a good friend. Play dates with Sophia and Miles were few and far between. Invitations to birthday parties rarely appeared in the mailbox.

I remained hard-headed and defiant. Fathers can do more than pick up sticks.

Vikki and I continued to volunteer. Not because we were welcomed and certainly not invited, but rather we believe school is a family commitment. As long as Sophia and Miles are in school, we’ll be there.

Working. Giving. Helping. Hoping. Encouraging. It’s what parents do.

It’s precisely what the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families did, and it mattered.

Being in charge and doing the work do not always go hand in hand. Pick, if you can. Choose, if you must. We choose to do the work.

You Should Look It Up

My mama and I had a lot of conversations in the car. A lot. We were always going from here to there, or somewhere.

“Did you know I coached basketball one time?”

“What? When? Where? Were y’all any good? Did you win? Who was your best player? Did you have an assistant?”

“It was my first year teaching. John A. Holmes High School in Edenton. I was told I’d be coaching the girl’s junior varsity basketball team after I took the job.”

I was less than impressed.

“We had a perfect record, too.”

“You were undefeated?”

“The varsity boys got the gym right after school. Then, the JV boys practiced. The varsity girls got it next and we could have the gym about seven or eight at night.”

“Y’all practiced at eight o’clock? What about the other gym? That’s not cool.”

“Son, there was only one gym and they didn’t care if the girls practiced or not.”

“And y’all won every game… that’s incredible.”

“We didn’t win.”

“But, you said…”

“I said our record was perfect. It was. We lost every game.”

“Mama! That’s awful. You didn’t win a game?”

“We never practiced. I wasn’t about to go in a dark school, late at night, with a bunch of ninth-grade girls. We showed up for the games and what happened, happened.”

Oh well. They didn’t ask my mama to coach another season.

Maybe coaching wasn’t her thing, but she could play ball. She was the starting center on the Thomasville High School women’s basketball team.

I inherited my mother’s enthusiasm for the game and her height, but not her ability to shoot the ball.

Sophia’s mama, Vikki, played soccer and field hockey. I had never really thought about it, but we’re an athletic family.

The competitive fire burns deeply in her DNA.

Whatever the reason, the girl was eager to join a team at Meadowlark Middle School.

Her first choice was volleyball. I was surprised.

“Why volleyball?”

“We watched it during the Olympics and I think it would be cool.”

Fair enough. Go for it. This, for a child that had not played a single point of volleyball.

It wasn’t a complete shock when her name did not appear on the roster.

She accepted an offer to be the team manager. She went to practice every day. She worked out with the team. She kept stats. She counted substitutions.

The season ended. No trophy. No championship. She came home with new bruises and a dull pencil.

No matter. She learned lots and she’s got a better chance to make the team next year.

“Basketball tryouts are Tuesday. Can I go?”

Yes. Of course. Go.

I met Sophia in the carpool line after the first day of tryouts.

“How’d it go?”

“Good.”

“Can we move past the mono-syllabic responses, please? How many people were at auditions? Tryouts. Whatever they are.”

“Fifty or sixty.”

“Fifty or sixty?!?!”

I was not expecting that.

“What did you have to do?”

“We warmed up. We ran. We scrimmaged… I think I made one of them mad.”

“One of who? A coach? A player?”

“A player.”

“What happened?”

“Well, we were scrimmaging and she got mad and threw the ball down and started yelling at me. ‘You can’t do all that and keep putting your hands in my face!’”

“Sophia, what were you doing?”

“I was guarding her. I said, ‘you know what? I’m doing my job. It’s called defense. You should look it up.’”

“Yep. She’s probably mad. She’ll get over it. Good for you. You did the right thing.”

Sophia was utterly serious. I struggled to hide my laughter.

You should look it up.

Damn. That’s funny. Make the team or not, that’s pure gold.

Tryouts lasted all week. Another round of cuts every afternoon.

Team rosters were due to be published on the school’s website by 6:30 PM.

There it was. “Sophia Griffin” was the second name listed.

Sophia is practicing layups in the driveway.

Vikki is ordering terrible towels and a Mustang jersey.

Margaret is undoubtedly pleased to know practice begins at 2:00, not 8:00.

I’m relieved. Excited. Proud. Hopeful.

#22. You should look it up. Oh, me. I’ll forever love that. Go, Sophia. Go.

Mr. President

Zeke Leonard was one of my mother’s favorite children.

Talk about marching to the beat of your own drummer… Zeke paraded through life with his own band, rootin’-tootin’ melodies most of us had never heard.

Zeke was different. Not peculiar. Not a little odd. Different different. Unique. Special. One of a kind.

I think it’s fair to say most of us didn’t pay much attention.

He was skinny. Well, he was as narrow as we were wide. Long hair. Black overcoat. All kinds of bracelets and rings and necklaces.

We tolerated him because Margaret loved him. He wasn’t obtuse or anything, he just wasn’t “one of us.” Most importantly, he hadn’t earned his place in the inner circle.

It was our traditional end-of-the-school-day gathering in Room 150. Magnolia was irritated. We waited for the hammer to drop, wondering who had messed up.

“Y’all know Zeke…”

“That little boy in the black coat?” It was probably Beau, because he was the only member of the inner circle afforded to the grace to make politically insensitive comments.

“Yes. And he’s not a little boy. I like him. He has a problem and I want it fixed. Tomorrow.”

Turns out, some older, bigger, dumber and uglier boys were making life difficult for Zeke. He told Margaret. Margaret told us. It was handled.

Nobody was older, bigger, dumber and uglier than us, so it really wasn’t a big deal.

That was all it took. Zeke belonged.

Whatever legacy we created, good or bad, we left in the hands of others. Win. Susi. Marsi. Zeke.

In the spring of his junior year, Zeke announced he was going to run for student body President. My mother was not pleased.

I was sitting in her room after school when the conniption hit. I sure was glad it was directed at somebody other than me.

“Zeke, it’s not funny and I can’t believe you would waste everybody’s time if you don’t really want to do it.”

I think Zeke thought of it more as a protest or rebellion, than anything else. That’s what it looked like.

“If you want to be President, don’t mess around. Campaign and do it. Otherwise, get out of the way.”

Zeke did not mess around. It was a group effort. Everybody campaigned. The speech, fabulous. The posters, direct. The slogan, “Why not?” It worked, too.

Zeke won the election. The student body President at North Forsyth High School. His name is etched on a plaque outside the main office on Shattalon Drive.

I was a student council officer. Care Bears appeared on my campaign posters. It was charming.

My mama was a student council officer at Thomasville High School.

It runs in the family.

We were prepared for Sophia to make a run in the fall of 2020. It didn’t happen. The pandemic ensured there would be no campaigning and no voting at Vienna Elementary.

Miles came home and said, “we’re gonna vote for the Student Council. Do you think I should run for office? It might be fun!”

Margaret and Zeke: the encore.

I heard myself quoting my mother.

“Let me tell you something young man, if you want to be President, don’t mess around. It’s not fun. It’s work. Campaign and do it or get out of the way and vote for somebody else.”

He trudged down the hall, like I had sucked all the joy out of the universe in ten easy seconds.

He returned to the living room a few moments later.

“I want to run for President. I’ll do the work and I have some ideas. Will you help me?”

That was like asking a Clydesdale if he wanted to work for Anheuser-Busch.

Posters. Flyers. Business cards. A speech.

He’s thought and thought and thought.

He’s written and written and written.

He’s practiced and practiced and practiced.

He’s campaigned and campaigned and campaigned.

Win or lose, he did the work.

He made the effort.

I couldn’t be more pleased.

He’s dealt with bullies making fun of his campaign slogan.

I encouraged him to ask the question. “Why didn’t you run?”

The kids voted.

Like Zeke, he won.

Somewhere, some day – his name will be etched on a plaque.

Congratulations, son.

Mr. President, it’s time to get to work.

Unexpected Kindness

Unexpected kindness makes all the difference. Life Pie needs more grace than sugar.

I received a late-night email from one of Sophia’s teachers. The inevitable stomach-churning commenced when I saw the sender’s email address.

Oh, Lord. School. A teacher. What happened?

The teacher’s words…

“Good evening Mr. Griffin,

I was going to email you about this beautiful young lady. You have raised a great future leader of tomorrow. I enjoy her in my class. I told Sophia last time; she is a God sent young lady.

Thank you so much for trusting me to teach your child. I cannot ask for anything more. She is always at her best behavior and always willing to help me with things I need in class.”

I have chewed middle-school butt since the beginning of school. Everything has changed, and nothing has changed.

Behavior. Effort. Attitude.

We’ve had more eye rolling than I like and more drama than I imagined possible.

The transition to a completely different world coupled with a return to face-to-face instruction after a nearly two-year, pandemic-sustained hiatus has been anything but dull.

Many days, I wonder if we’re terrible parents. Are we wrong? Too controlling? Too demanding? Too forgiving? Too loose? How does a father know when he is right? Where is the line?

All the bravado and self-confidence in the universe will not answer those questions.

Does she hear anything we say? Is she who we think she is when she walks through the school door?

Oh, me.

Unexpected. Exceptionally kind.

Good for Sophia. Way to go, girl.

And thank you, Mrs. Charles, for putting my mind at ease. For the moment, anyway.

My return trip to self-doubt and worry doesn’t leave until tomorrow.

I Am Somebody – Sophia

Sophia’s pledge to herself and the universe, to be proclaimed every morning this school year.

She is somebody.

I am somebody.

God is always with me. Always.

My brother is a prince, my mother is the queen, my daddy is king and I am royalty.

I will remember to say “thank you” and “please” and “you’re welcome” and “I love you.”

I will listen so that I may be heard when I speak.

I will mean what I say and say what I mean.

I will eat what makes me happy.

I will always do my best and I will believe in the possibility of the impossible.

I will think and I will learn.

I will laugh and I will cry.

I will love and I will enjoy the adventure.

I will celebrate family time, stories and kindness.

I will be honest.

I will try to do what is right, even if it is unpopular.

I am willing to be wrong and I am not afraid to fail.

I will be generous and I will be kind.

I will forgive myself and others.

I will work hard and I will play hard and I will remember that naps are important.

I will be grateful and I refuse to surrender to worry.

I will take care of myself and my family.

I will dance and I will sing and I will paint.

I will read and I will dream and I will create.

I will remember and I will believe in grace and truth.

Whatever it is, it will get better.

My body is my business and nobody else gets a vote.

Life is tough and so am I.

I accept myself and I am responsible for me.

What I bring to the world is enough.

I am loved.

I am Sophia Elizabeth Griffin and I am somebody.

The Night Before School – 2021

Well… we’re one hour into the first day of school and I’m nowhere close to sleeping.

Something isn’t right. I’ve cried and cried while watching SISTER ACT 2 and JUMANJI (the one with the Rock, not Robin Williams.)

This is the first time in Sophia’s life I won’t be in school. I’m crushed. Broken. Lost in in a seemingly endless darkness. Unneeded. Unnecessary. Bitter and generally not fit to be around.

Whatever. There is nothing to be said. Monday ain’t about Jeffrey.

The wave of first-day pictures and new haircuts is imminent.

Freshly-sharpened Ticonderoga #2’s have been replaced with school-issued Chromebooks and mechanical pencils.

We’ve written on the car windows. Lunch notes are folded and tucked where they will be inevitably discovered.

New outfits are hanging on the bedroom doors and the new shoes are laced.


Vikki and I are PTA members at Vienna and Meadowlark.

Alarms are set and new face masks are beside the door.

What’s left?

God.

G.O.D.

Guard On Duty?

Good Old Dad?

Greatest Of Designers?

I don’t know. I’m honestly not feeling like an “All the way with Yahweh” cheerleader. I feel done with the universe and I don’t like it.

The night before school begins has always been, for me, like the night before Christmas. Full of excitement and wonder with unbridled joy and enthusiasm for the next adventure. Not tonight.

Might as well get to what matters…

God, look after Sophia and Miles. Look after all the children.

The teachers.

The assistants.

The custodians.

The secretaries.

The administrators.

The coaches.

The counselors.

The cafeteria folks.

The maintenance brigade.

The bus drivers.

The crossing guards.

I need-want-hope-ask-pray-and-plead for each of these people to have the best school year of their lives.

It’s selfish. I want them to be at their best so they can give their best effort while teaching and leading Sophia and Miles.

Lord, keep stupid people away from our children.

Remind the world that perfection is impossible.

Send kindness and grace through the school doors.

Prevent our children from chasing friendships that are unhealthy, unfair and unlasting.

Put the worry on me. I’ll carry that cross.

Shut the doors on mean-spirited, inequitable, unforgiving hearts.

Fill their days with patience and wisdom and joy.

Their school schedules are somewhere here on the desk, but I can’t find them. If I could, I’d call each teacher by name. Perhaps later today…

God, fill the fifth grade at Vienna Elementary with unseen angels and keep my boy safe.

Surround the sixth grade at Meadowlark Middle with warriors cloaked in the armour of Heaven and keep my girl safe.

May Sophia and Miles be twice as good as their father and half as good as their mama.

Amen.

Louisville-Louisville Slugger Factory (Part 4 of 4)

I’m not a baseball person. It’s not terrible, or anything. I simply prefer football and basketball.

Baseball games take too long. Too much wandering around. Too must talking. Too much scratching. I don’t have the patience.

I’m not a statistics person. Batting averages and ERA’s don’t do a thing for me.

On the other hand…

I respect the tradition. I think the World Series is terrific, but I wish they’d play a day game once in a while. West coast late games are too late for me.

I have a bat autographed by Pete Rose. I loved Tommy Lasorda. Willie Stargell and the Pittsburgh Pirates were a lot of fun.

Nannie, my grandmother, said there were two teams in baseball: the Dodgers and the Yankees.

“We’re for the Dodgers and we’re not for the Yankees.”

Got it. Yay Dodgers. Boo Yankees.

My grandmother ran a boarding house in Thomasville. Many players on the Hi-Toms lived with Blanche and Barney during their minor league playing days.

One such boarder was Eddie Matthews. 500 home runs. 12 all-star games. Cooperstown. Before he hit the big leagues, he played in the yard with my mama while my grandmother cooked in the kitchen.

I’m not completely baseball ignorant.

Vikki and I sat on the first base line to watch the Yankees and the Mets.

My mama took me to more than a few games at Ernie Shore Field.

I work for the Chicago White Sox. For me, baseball is work.

I was searching for an adventure to fill out our Louisville expedition.

The Louisville Slugger Factory. Okey dokey. That might be fun.

Was it? Oh boy!

I was immediately pleased when the parking deck elevator deposited us in the lobby of the bat factory. No lines. No waiting. We were in it to win it less than sixty seconds after parking the car.

Sophia and Miles each selected a bat to be engraved with their name. We submitted the order and headed for the factory tour.

The tour is splendid. You are literally in “the” bat factory. Wood chips flying. It smells like a forest. Numerous video screens and an excellent sound system allow every member of the touring party hear the Hillerich & Bradsby story.

One of the neatest facts we learned: the company owns huge tracts of woodland to sustain the supply of trees necessary to manufacture a gabillion Louisville Sluggers each year. The company plants more trees than they harvest. Impressive.

We each took batting practice. For the sake of family harmony, I’ll say nothing more about this, EXCEPT… everybody made contact with the ball. At least once.

The most unexpected and thrilling moment was the opportunity to hold a game-used bat from a legendary player.

Sophia held one of Willie Mays’ bats.

Miles posed with one of Hank Aaron’s thunder sticks.

Willie Mays. Hank Aaron. It was enough to make me cry.

Normally, we let the kids do the stuff. We watch and cheer and take pictures. (If we remember to take the camera.)

I couldn’t help myself. I stepped forward and pointed to a bat in the display case. I was certain the answer would be, “no, not that one.” The attendant smiled and handed me the bat.

One of Babe Ruth’s bats. Good. Gracious. It happened.

We returned to the store and got Sophia’s and Miles’ bats. They are beautiful. It’s the perfect souvenir. Really.

So you know: seating options are practically non-existent. There might be room for ten people to take a seat. Prepare to be on your feet.

No concessions are available, but there is a Subway one block down the street.

The store offerings are limited. It’s 99% shirts and bats with a few hats tossed in for good measure. That’s pretty much it.

All in all, a fun time and well worth the visit. Get tickets online in advance.