|Stretching those hamstrings...|
If that wasn’t enough, after the three-hour camp ended, he wanted to continue practicing and had me throw balls for him to hit.
Needless to say, I was beside myself; as Bill Cosby would say in his old comedy routine, “Yes, that’s my son!”
Not that I don’t take great pride in my daughters too but they like dancing, dolls and make up, which, no matter how much I enjoy watching them, and going to the Manuel Artime Theatre on given Sunday afternoons, I’m not as partial to. My younger daughter plays soccer (but, let’s be honest, despite the guys with the long locks and hair ribbons running around the fields on TV during the World Cup , to me, it’s more of a workout than a sport!).
This was baseball! The game I grew up playing and wanted to do more than anything in the world. The game I would spend all week looking forward to playing and spent hours upon hours practicing and trying to improve my skills. In fact, I even went to college wanting to become a sportscaster because, since I didn’t have the talent to play, at the least, that way, I could stay involved in the game (Although, I decided to get into TV news instead).
Before my son's practice, I went and got him a pair of baseball pants and his first peewee protective cup, which he got really excited about.
And, so there I was, after practice, lobbing whiffle balls at him, which after several swings and misses, he got the hang of and started hitting every toss.
On the way home, we were both beaming; me because, as the Psalm states, "my cup runneth over" with joy and pride (not that he was my son but the I was his dad) and him, possibly the same; but from slightly a different perspective. When I turned around and asked him if he had fun and he said yes indeed, because he was wearing his “beautiful little cup.” Ok, so maybe, his peewee protective cup will not be overflowing, for a while but, at least, he was excited about baseball…