When Clare was
small, we’d go for a walk to the Avenue Drug Store in Oak Park. I’d buy the paper and some Junior Mints while
Clare headed for the toy aisle. Two
months short of her fourth birthday, she got me to buy a wiffle ball and bat
set. It took three swings until Clare
figured out how to line the ball at my head.
Parents, beware what television you expose your children to, and thank
you, Frank Thomas.
If Michele
dreamed of having a daughter who danced, they pretty much ended with that first
line drive. That is, until last night,
when we attended Clare’s first-ever dance recital; she and her roommate Rachel
took a Middle Eastern dance-history class at school over the January
break. Middle of the order hitter, oh
yeah, but I don’t know about the dancing.
A father shouldn’t be made to see his daughter with finger cymbals.
We sat in front of
eight softball players there for moral support; they definitely made a spirited
audience. Michele, her dream more than
eighteen years delayed, smiled throughout.
I just want to know if any of the moves will translate to the diamond,
like football players taking ballet for balance. We’ll see soon enough.
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