The young miss and I have restarted our routine of last summer: simulated baseball in the backyard. A “hit” past the workshed (or not) is a double (or a single). Home run has to be hit in the air to the on the property on the opposite side of our block.
After Sunday’s game, called by Mom because of bedtime. And darkness, we were comparing the abrasions on the heels of our left hands. (Similar grip on the bat, I guess.) My wife asked Britt why she kept playing if her hand was sore.
Sheesh. Some things moms don’t know.
I was also flexing my arm, and my wife asked if a needed a pill. The more important information was the scouting report on the young miss: she is one tough batter to get out. She has a better swing than my awkwardness. Plus, she never gives up. I don’t know how many two-strike, two-out hits I gave up. Did I mention her comeback after trailing 8-0 in the second inning?
Later in the game, she was clinging to a one-run lead when I had her at two outs and 0-2. I tried to sneak something in close, and she ripped a bases-loaded double over the roof of the shed. Seven runs later, I was up to bat.
Just a few things dads understand but moms don’t.