Take pictures, cheer him on, keep Alex from throwing balls on the field, meet a parent (and promptly forget her name), sign a sheet to bring snacks next, um, sometime, feed Alex candy, then crackers, then help him wash it down with water, take more pictures, play catch with Alex, call Pete who's in Chicago to give him an update, fish orange Tootsie pop out of the dirt and convince Alex it's no longer good, call seasoned sports mom sister for tips on how to get through the next twelve years of this...
...and possibly realize the evening wasn't about me. Drat.
Mickey did have a great time, in spite of his learning curve:
"Mom, is there going to be another team there?"
"Can I have my snack?" (After each inning...)
"Am I going to be catching or hitting tonight?"
"Is there a door to go down to the field?" (Yes, honey, in about 20 years.)
I'm sure this guy was imparting tee-ball wisdom unto my little boy. Or maybe just "...hit the ball, kid, so we can all go home..."