Take Me Out to the Ballgame

Luke (17 mos) inherited a pitching machine from our neighbors. You push a button and it spits out wiffle balls one after another. Luke isn’t really into it yet, but I am a wiffle ball rockstar. I’ve hit the ball onto the roof and over our fence several times, requiring a trip to Target to replenish our ball supply.

Over the weekend, Brantley, Luke and I were playing ball in the backyard. Luke had the plastic bat and was swinging at the balls on the ground as if he were playing hockey. The following conversating ensued.

Me: Strike three. He’s out. It’s my turn to hit.

Brantley: Are you seriously not giving him another chance? He’s learning how to swing the bat.

Me: Rules are rules. I didn't invent the game and he’s gotta learn sometime.

Brantley: Don’t you dare take that bat away from him.

Luke swung the bat again, completely missing the ball this time.

Me: (under my breath) We want a hitter not an underwear sniffer.

Brantley: What did you just say?

Me: I said, “good try.” Now it’s my turn.