First Son has begun an obsession with baseball, but all is not lost. He got a card featuring a player on the Kansas City Royals, and he held it up as he sang â€œRoyalsâ€ by Lorde to me. Heh heh.
With this latest obsession, I am regularly recruited to hit a ball with a bat, pitch, and run bases about twice a day. I have not held a bat since seventh grade. It is actually fun to hold a baseball â€“ it truly is the perfect size for a palm (or mine).
As an adult, I have the wherewithal and experience to take that simple step of extending the bat, analyzing the best point to swing, and actually hitting the ball. This never happened back in the days of adolescent yore. I, probably like many kids or girls, felt too self-conscious to even extend the bat. To appear that I was trying would demonstrate that I cared, and if I failed without trying, that was better than failing with trying.
I was telling all this blathering to Husband how I took the time to extend my bat to judge where the ball should go and the background as an adult, an impossibility when it really counted (junior high school, when it could have made me more popular). He paused and asked me in all reverent seriousness, “would you like me to teach you?” I’m like, god no! Sure, if we could time travel, a lesson would have been fantastic when I was young, but now I’m 45. What do I care?
Nevertheless, he made me get off the TV watching couch to take his lesson and I allowed it without rolling my eyes. Sigh.