Wonderboy, Found

The new-old bat arrived Monday, and Clare was very excited.  “It looks perfect,” she told me over the phone.  “Can you come pitch batting practice?”  That’s the big advantage of attending school one county over.  It’s too far to commute, but close enough to summon parents when needed, and I was needed.

I stood behind a screen and tossed balls with my daughter no more than fifteen feet away.  It was like watching a mortar up close—what went in zoomed out, with the balls mostly coming to a rest on the warning track at the Elmhurst Bluejays’ home field.  Something about a ball your child hits rattling the fence that does a soul good.

Clare has a strong but not a vicious swing; she won’t screw herself into the ground going after a pitch.  With her, it’s all about the hands.  They’re so quick.  I mean, the girl flicked her bat, and balls went sailing.  Where does a gift like that come from?  Maybe the milkman.  

This all reminded me of the time eight years ago, right before Clare tried out for two travel teams (and made them both.  Talk about an embarrassment of riches.). Every day for a week we went out to practice, fielding first, then hitting.  Flyball, groundball, fastball, repeat.  Each day was 90-degrees plus.  The infield dirt was so powdery it worked its way into my underwear, making for an interesting off-color.  Even though that field was shorter than the one yesterday, Clare couldn’t quite get a ball over the fence.  She did it twice with the new Wonderboy.

            NCAA-sanctioned fall ball starts in another week or so.  That’ll be the next test.