A Walk and a Stroll

I was taking Satan for her walk Saturday morning when I spotted a campaign sign on the corner. I’d know that name anywhere, and he wouldn’t get my vote to flush out sewers. Check that. He’d be perfect for the job. Some things you don’t forget, like the way a coach treats your eleven-year old. Clare had just moved up from Mustang- to Bronco-level Pony Ball. The previous two years, she was good enough to start all the time and make the All-Star team both times (although the coaches one year didn’t want her playing the field, being a girl and all). Clare should’ve been with her old team when it moved up but got placed elsewhere for reasons I don’t understand to this day. New coach didn’t like new player and didn’t care if her new teammates did, either. Clare ended up platooning at second base with a boy who had a prosthetic leg; every time he batted, cheers went up from the bench. That never happened with Clare, although a teammate did tell her one time she was having a bad day in the field at practice “because you suck.” Midway through the season, the coach awarded her with a game ball for being such a good sport about not starting. Two years later, at the Pony-level, I brought Clare in to face her now ex-coach’s son. who told the ump he’d die of embarrassment if he struck out. “Where’s the death certificate?” my daughter called out after getting her strikeout. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, they say, in which case the grandkid will have Super Woman for a mom. Me, I’ll be watching election results nine days from now.