Heores Just for One Day

 I used to pick Clare up from grade school to go hitting.  Now, we coordinate across state lines.  The old way was easier.

My daughter treats a bat and helmet with the greatest of affection; to her, they are tools, toys, props and accoutrements.  She is the only person I’ve ever seen make a fashion statement with sports’ equipment.  I take that back.  For Clare, the equipment is the fashion.

This was the first time she’d been hitting in months, not that it stopped me from grumbling through that first token.  Then the rust fell off, and the line drives started.  Remember Batman, the TV series?  Everything became WHACK!  POW!!  CRACK!!!  I half expected Burgess Meredith to waddle out from behind the pitching machines and surrender to the forces of good (hitting).

As ever, Clare drew an audience of guys, three this time, who had been taking their hacks in the 80-plus mph cage.  Yeah, let’s see the girl do anything.  Huh?  Holy crap!  Did you see that?  Yes, Batgirl really can turn on a fastball. 

Afterwards, we talked a little.  It’s April, my daughter wants to be playing, but she’s out of eligibility.  She complains that professional softball is a little, insulated sorority.  I complain it has no deep-pocket investors willing to grow the sport.  I look at the MLB standings and see both the Twins and Braves are 0-9.  No sir, we wouldn’t want women messing up things on those teams.  I saw Pablo Sandoval break his belt—or his gut break his belt—on a swing.  Oh, we can’t spend $95 million on a woman ballplayer.

All we can do is buy tokens to feed the pitching machines at Stella’s off of Ogden Avenue.