What a Good Father Does

Yesterday, Clare faced live pitching for the first time since Holland, and nothing she hit cleared the fence.  Talk about a subdued phone conversation.

This proves, yet again, that Yogi Berra was right about the game being fifty percent half-mental, especially hitting.  Bad-Clare once spent two years getting over the notion she couldn’t hit lefties.  Good-Clare thrives in the clutch, with two homeruns against the three-time CCIW pitcher of the year.  The first homerun set the single-season record at Elmhurst (6) while the second was in the post-season tournament; that ball travelled in the neighborhood of 275 feet.  That would be 400-feet plus in baseball.

So, here’s what I’m going to do, laminate a page out Ball Four, about someone taking batting practice, and give it to Clare for her mantra.  She’ll start with, “My name is Ted f*****g Williams and I’m the best hitter in baseball.”  Then, “Jesus H. Christ Himself couldn’t get me out.”  After that, “Here comes Jim Bunning, Jim f*****g Bunning and that little s**t slider of his.”  Poor Mr. Bunning.  “He doesn’t really think he’s gonna get me out with that s**t.”  Of course not, because, “I’m Ted f*****g Williams.”

           This will help my daughter remember she’s Clare f*****g Bukowski.