When it was announced last December that the Babe Ruth 16-18 World Series would be coming to Jamestown, my wife asked me if we could be host parents.
I agreed, but privately I had my misgivings.
Even after reporting and working in a dozen World Series at various sites throughout the country during the last 13 years, I had never considered entertaining teen-agers for a week. After all, I reasoned, we had three preteen boys of our own. How could we possibly keep our checkbook, not to mention our sanity, balanced with two more?
Besides we have just one bathroom, one refrigerator, one working TV and one hectic work schedule.
What had I agreed to?
Repeated assurances from friends who had positive host-family experiences couldn’t chase away the nagging doubts that cluttered my mind. Even as I said the politically correct things around the house, my cynicism was very close to the surface.
Thankfully, my wife’s intuition was correct. Again.
It’s been three days since “our” boys, Justin and Chris, returned to their homes in Stamford, Conn. I’m still not sure we have recovered.
As Justin and Chris boarded the bus at Jamestown Community College Friday afternoon, Vicki, Eric, Jeremy, and Matthew were on the verge of tears. As the bus pulled away, they couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears rolled down their cheeks and I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. My “boys” were gone.
Justin, the loud, out-going relief pitcher, and Chris, the quiet, but intensely competitive catcher, were returning to the metro New York City area, but not without leaving something in Jamestown behind.
For in the eight days they called Hotchkiss Street home, Justin and Chris were members of our family. They called Vicki “mom”, ate us out of house and home – Id never seen four pounds of spaghetti disappear at one sitting – and slept until mid-afternoon each day. And through it all, I found myself – yes, the cynic in the family – drawing closer to these boys. At games, I referred to then as “my kids.” When they appeared behind the plate or on the mound, I yelled and screamed, forgetting what I spectacle I was making of myself while at the same time thankful that my boss, Jim Riggs, had given me the time off to enjoy, rather than report on, Stamford’s games.
It was one of the most enjoyable and memorable weeks of my life. And, ironically enough, it had nothing to do with the wins and losses. Although they lost two of three games – both setbacks of the gut-wrenching variety – I won’t remember the games nearly as much as the friends I made, both from Stamford and from the city I call home. So, to my fellow host parents – the Larsons, Hyers, Swansons, Lundbergs, Scotchmers-Carubbas, Moranos, and Lombardos – maybe we can all do this again the next time a World Series comes to town. It was worth every penny.
And every tear.
