T-Ball

I am not what you would call a sports fan. I played two seasons of little league baseball, which I hated, and then I wrestled for half a season in the eighth grade (I broke my wrist and couldn't have been more thrilled). I took one painfully embarrassing year of phys. ed. in the ninth grade (it was required) and I have since watched something like two dozen sporting events, very few of them with any kind of enthusiasm. I am pleased to announce that early signs indicate that my son will be following in my footsteps. At tonight's t-ball practice he introduced himself to his coach as "Luke Skywalker" and then pretended to fall asleep. His t-ball bat is a lightsaber and his mitt is perpetually on the wrong hand, not because we bought him the wrong glove, but because he doesn't care. When picking up the ball he first cleans any stray blades of grass from the ball's surface and then hoists it daintily betwixt two pudgy fingers. While running around the bases he was lapped by one of the team's two girls. I can only assume that they will one day marry.

Watching him practice was like going back in time and having an out-of-body experience.