The Curse of the Homerun
June 11, 2006
I don’t think I will give up my day job just yet and become a motivational speaker. Not that I actually have a day job.
Yesterday was baseball from 8:00 in the morning until about 4:30 in the afternoon.
I often think it is some sort of divine retribution that I, who despise sports so fully, would end up with boys who love nothing more than participating in sports, any sports.
That I, who think a good time in the sun involves laying down, moving only my eyes to read and my lips to suck my fruity drink, would end up with sons who need me to run, jump, cheer, and not lay down at all in the sun.
That I, who cringe and cover my face when a ball is tossed near me, would have to watch balls thrown 70 miles per hour perilously close to my sons’ faces.
That I, who hate to get dirty and sweat, would be faced daily with more stinky laundry than a frat house.
There is a God, I say. And he is vindictive.
So we had four baseball games back to back at different locations. The locations did have something in common though, they were all muddy and freezing cold, with a wind that chapped our faces and caused us all to collectively wonder if it was really March.
My oldest son, of the-hit-an-out-of-the-park-homerun-and-now-has-a-head-so-
large-we-had-to-put-extenders-on-the-back-of-his-baseball- cap-fame, he had a double header yesterday. He got up to bat 7 times. He struck out five of those times. FIVE. It was painful to watch. The other two times he grounded out. His little feet, or huge flippers if we are striving for accuracy, never touched first base.
He cried. This is permissible according to The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) which allows for crying when you miss important plays. The Code of Boys (ages 11-12) allows you to cry from physical pain only if there is lots of blood or requires a trip to the hospital in an ambulance. At least this is what I can make out from my vantage point as an outsider.
On the positive side, his baseball cap now fits again and he no longer resembles a bobble-head.
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