Playin' Ball

Our practice field is a 45 degree climb from the bottom of the deck stairs, and it's barely wide enough for a not-quite-ten-year old's throw. Any decent hit requires a walk over or around or through the mouldering rail fence and into the neighbor's yard, but neither of us mind, at least not yet. The season has just begun.

It's the lowest of low-key seasons, just a city softball league with a half-dozen teams. No traveling, no tournaments, but preoccupations enough: will she stay focused, will she have fun, will the coach give her a chance? Will this year's pitchers give her anything to hit? Because for us, it's all about the hitting.

"That felt so good!" exclaims my daughter, as she smacks a legitimate extra base hit.

"That's what you want," I say, smiling to myself.

Like mother, like daughter: both would stand at the plate and hit all day, both only field because you gotta, often with results that reflect that imbalanced interest.

I try, though, I do, forcing her to catch more than hit. She's game, because she also knows she needs that practice more, but both of us are antsy to pick up the bat. Before we go in, I make her pitch to me, too. Just one.

All right, just one more.

"That's okay, Mom. I know how it feels."

I'm no athlete, and I'm not really a ballplayer. If anyone's going to help her improve her game, it's probably not going to be me. I can't do much more than give her a few pointers and a long ball to chase. But it's fun to share something with your child, and if that something is the love of a good, solid hit down the middle, I'll take it.