I never understood parents who tried to “live out their dream” through their kid. But now, I think, I might have an inkling of the sentiment.

My son plays baseball. It’s not that I’ve ever wanted to play ball. But my kid plays baseball, and so I suppose that makes me a Baseball Mom.

Being a Baseball Mom is much more prestigious than being a Soccer Mom. First, my son doesn’t have to play with girls anymore. (In the minor soccer leagues, the teams are co-ed.) When he played soccer, my son was out for blood, and that doesn’t fare well with the girls… or their Soccer Moms. And frankly, even at this age, the boys are better athletes than the girls are. (You wanna argue?) Baseball has always been a man’s sport, and thankfully, the feminists haven’t sissified it yet. Only the boys play baseball. Which is the way it should be.

Where else can you sit in the stands while some 5-year-old little brother yells, “Hit it home, you Yankee!” ? Too, there are no hokey decals that I have to put on the bumper of my minivan when your kid plays baseball. Yes, baseball is better.

Not only does my son get to play with the big boys now, he’s also pretty descent. In fact, the coach for the other team yelled at the batter, “Hit the ball, buddy…but DON’T hit it to that kid.” Then—in the moment that changed everything—he pointed at my son. Yes, in one defining moment, I now knew why parents get all crazy in the stands. That’s my kid.

The way I see it, I had to own it when he was an infant and knocked over the display in the grocery store. When he was three and walloped another kid for taking his snack, it was me who had to stand up and say, “Yeah, that’s my kid.”

And so now, when onlookers ask whom that kid belongs to, it’s only right, fair, and just that I get the chance to coo humbly, “Yeah, that’s my kid.”

It comes with the territory of motherhood. And while he’s on top of his game, I’m taking it.