My wife informed me recently that our 7-year-old wanted to play baseball this year. This news came, metaphorically speaking, out of left field. I have no interest in the game and he’s not really a sporty kid — something I’ve never seen as a problem.
“Okay,” I said, upon hearing the news. “When is the sign-up deadline?”
“Today,” my wife replied casually, making an expression that made me wonder if I was getting messed with.
A harried trip to the computer and $115 later, my boy was signed up for first-grade coach-pitched baseball and my guts were in a twist. In order to complete the registration, I had to answer some questions online.
“What is your child’s playing level?” I picked beginner because “Not Applicable” was not an option.
“Can your child play any special position? Pick pitcher or catcher.” I wondered if I could put a four-letter modifier in front of the boldface NO.
Sure, we play “baseball” in the front yard sometimes, but note the quotation marks. My son’s version of the game involves wildly throwing imaginary flaming pokeballs while I attempted to smash them with a tennis racket (we don’t own a bat). When I hit an imaginary ball, I run into my son to make him drop it. If he does, I have to run to “home base” before he reaches “the mound” or we exchange points.
The kid is going to find his first real practice rather confusing.
My dread at his likely humiliation…