Dr. Spock Would Not Approve

So we have our first game scheduled for tomorrow. We actually had a great practice yesterday. The town finally got around to removing the crab grass from the infield area, so there was an actual dirt field to play on. Of course since it hasn't rained here in about three weeks, said dirt could more accirately be described as 4" of dust. Some of the kids suggested that they should have watered down the field, to which I replied that they weren't getting paid to play and that they should probably just shut up and be glad we didn't have to mow second base.

We don't have uniforms yet, which is just as well, since the kids spent the first 20 minutes of practice kicking the dust and producing a dust storm that in about three days will be affecting weather patterns over China. At one point I couldn't see the second baseman from home plate, so I told them to stop.

I'm pretty sure that we'll win our game. For one thing, based on yesterday's practice, we're pretty good. And more importnantly, the other coach finally called me this morning to tell me that he just got appointed coach two days ago and just got his roster last night. Their first practive will be our game. I told him I don't take these things seriously, but we're so totally kicking their asses.

Lost amongst all this good news, however, is my son's dark crisis of the soul. This year is the first year he'll face pitching from kids his own age. And 9 year olds aren't real accurate. And they tend to hit batters. A lot. During practice yesterday we scrimmaged and my son, and a few other kids, were basically hitting with one foot in the batter's box and the other in the dugout. I explained to my son when we got home that yes, it does hurt to get hit with a thrown ball, but that by the time you get to 1B it's basically just sore and you're fine. Besides, physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain of your old man calling you a little bitch. OK, I may not have said that.

So my son says that that's all fine for me, I've been hit before and I know what it's like. He doesn't know and he's scared.

You can see where this is going right?

So I say "Oh, we can take care of that right now." I take him out in the backyard and throw a baseball at him. He did consent to this beforehand. I throw it medium speed, probably a little less hard than what he'll face from the kids in his league. It's perfect. It's going to hit him right in the thigh. It'll give him a good little sting, he'll jog it off in about two minutes, and another childhood crisis will be averted thanks to a father hurling a baseball at a minor.

Then he moved.

He jerks backward, for some reason bringing his front leg up at the same time. The ball that seconds before was going to hit his thigh now hits him right on the edge of the knee cap. I can hear the crack from 20' away. I've been hit there before by bad-hop grounders and it's a pain that just makes you want to vomit.

Needless to say, for the next 15 minutes he was pretty pissed and wanted to quit. So I just hung out with him and told him about some of my memorable shots, including once playing catcher for my college dormitory and missed a throw from the outfield, taking a ball to the chin. That really happened. Make your own Elton John joke here. Soon he was back to normal, plus he had a cool bruise with stitch marks from the baseball on his knee. He's going to show it off at school today and I'll probably be arrested tonight.

Tomorrow we go up on the roof and cure his fear of heights.