(Original post date: Tuesday, April 01, 2008)

Oh God – if you’re out there, help me to be a good sports mom tomorrow.

Let me have faith in my son’s helmet and assorted pads. I didn’t know LAX was a contact sport when I said my son could play, though the cumbersome and expensive array of protective gear should’ve been my first clue.

Let me not stand up, point and yell, “Hitting!” I know they’re not in kindergarten, but it’s just not nice, so help me keep that opinion to myself.

Let me not have to cover my eyes or gasp and speak in Yiddish, causing those around me to gawk. I can’t help it if I channel my grandmother when I watch people get hurt or hit each other with sticks. It seems that the hitting with sticks is inevitable, and people getting hurt can’t be far behind, so I’ll need some help with that.

Let me think only generous thoughts about the other players and assorted adults. It would be good to get through this without thinking “@$$&#!*” even once… though I can’t even drive from here to the grocery store without thinking at least one of those, so perhaps that’s asking too much.

Let me not end up sprawled on the ground, my brand new fold-up chair on top of me as I say, “I told you those legs weren’t locked.”

Let me not complain bitterly about the cold and the fact that it was over 70 degrees the day BEFORE I had to go sit in a field for an hour.

Most of all, God, help me be calm and supportive, and let my son see how proud I am of how hard he’s been working. Despite my qualms about him playing a contact sport, I am proud that he’s busted his butt – and I don’t think it’ll hurt him to know how to get knocked down, get up, and keep on playing.

Oh, please disregard this prayer if you don’t get done feeding the world’s hungry, smiting all total schmucks and creating world peace by 5 pm tomorrow.

Either way, I’ll try my best.

Amen.