You can take the girl out of the Bronx...

Today was a picture-perfect summer day here in northern NJ. It was eighty degrees and sunny with low humidity and a lovely breeze and we decided to enjoy the morning at the park. I packed a lunch and picnic blanket and settled in on the grass with the baby watching the girls play on the jungle gym. Thunk! What the hell was that?? A tennis ball landed a few yards away on the grass. "That's weird", I thought. There are no tennis courts here.

I look around and five or six thirteen years olds (I am surmising their age from their disheveled appearance and now-required long hair - is this 1970?) having batting practice with a metal bat and tennis balls over at the adjacent ball field which, before now, I had not noticed is curiously close to the playground. This gaggle of testosterone is not actually playing on the actual diamond itself, for some reason they are standing in the outfield bringing themselves that much closer to the playground. Goofy Kid #1 comes running over and grabs his ball shouting a derogatory remark at his pal. "OK", I think, "Random fly ball." and get back to my kickin' rendition of The Wheels on the Bus. Thunk! Are you kidding? This time I am not the only one notice and while I am not on my home turf (this playground is in the next town) and am, subsequently not hanging with my dad-pal, I notice the other moms looking concerned too.

Five minute later...Thunk! Goofy Kid #2 comes to get the ball this time and since no one else seems to be moving to speak I say, "Hey, hon" (having been a teacher I reserve the right to speak to any child using a term of endearment) "Would you guys mind batting the other way if it doesn't make any difference to you? That way you won't hit any balls into the playground and maybe hit someone." He grunts in the affirmative and I return to my jam session.

The girls need to use the bathroom so we run off to the library and when I return to the blanket approximately fifteen minutes later...Thunk! Now I've had it. I scoop up the baby, walk over to the fence and speak to the group of them at large. "Guys. I know we just talked about this. Would you please bat the other way before you hit someone and I have to get angry? OK?"

OK, that's not completely honest. In my fantasy that's what would have happened. Here's what happened in reality. I will spell phonetically for full effect since I, apparently, become my Bronx-born mother when angry. I scoop up the baby, angrily stomp over to the fence and scream while gesticulating wildly with my free arm, " Aw right! Are you kiddin' me? I KNOW I just tawked to you, (pointing at Goofy Kid #2) and I did it nicely. Now I'm gonna' scream at the bunch o' ya'! Turn and bat the other way befaw you hit one of my kids because if ya do then I'm really gonna' get pissed."

Yes, I am embarassed that I yelled "pissed" in front of small children (in my defense they were pretty far away), but you know what? I'm also sort of glad I did it. These kids are too damn used to the sing-songy voices of their teachers and parents cajoling them into doing what they should be doing in the first place. You know, like listening to adults when they tell them to do something, like not hitting tennis balls at preschoolers. If they pulled that crap on a playground in the Boogie Down (the Bronx for the uninitiated) - please. Picture the ensuing neck-snapping and finger-waving. They'd be slashed to death by the movement of a thousand acrylic tipped index fingers, the final words they hear being, "Oh no you DI-INT!"

And to my fellow mothers GET SOME BALLS! These are your toddlers who are about to get taken down in a flash of neon yellow felt. Yeah, I yelled at someone else's kid and the world did not explode. It's time we act as a community and present a united front about what is and is not acceptable behavior. If your kid is the one acting up, say, hitting my kid in the head, and you don't do anything about it, I will. We may be all from different ethnicities, religions and backgrounds, but basic deceny and self-restraint are vaues we can all agree on. So go ahead and give me the stink eye. I don't care.

So, in the end, I drove the group of budding Babe Ruths off the field and peace was restored. I'm not sure what these particular mothers thought of me, but one grandma gave me all the ammunition I needed to continue my assault on the badly behaved. After my rant I returned to my blanket and as I took a deep breath to lower my blood pressure I looked in her direction and she gave me an ever so subtle thumbs up. Thanks, Granny.