Come Look

It’s been a hard summer for Clare, between the job she has and the job she wants.  She’s happy to be at Northwestern; it’s a good name to attach to a résumé.  And the people there like her enough not to complain when she interviews for other jobs.

The only problem is it’s the commute from hell any way you go at it.  Northwestern’s Chicago campus is located just off the Magnificent Mile, so traffic is a bear 24/7.  Drive, and you’re stuck in traffic.  If you beat the traffic by some miracle, you end up paying an arm and a leg for parking.  Unfortunately, public transportation isn’t much better.  The train takes her to the West Loop, after which Clare can either walk six blocks to State Street, take the subway and then walk another eight blocks to the campus or pay for a shuttle that goes there...in heavy traffic.  Long story short, it takes her about an hour and a half each way every day.

So, we haven’t gone hitting much this summer.  Last night was the first time in close to two months; it happened because a job interview gone south made my child want to take a bat in her hands and hit things, things coming out of a pitching machine, though God knows those things came in with the faces of certain people attached.  I wasn’t too keen on the idea because it was likely to be a very “rusty” session.  My bad.

She was warming up in the 70 mph cage when a father walked by.  “Come look at her,” he told his nine- or ten-year old son.  “Look at her front foot; she doesn’t lift it too much,” which evidently the boy was doing.  After watching for a couple of minutes, the man said, “She’s got a beautiful swing,” just what a boy wants to hear about a girl, and an adult one at that.

When Clare moved up to 75 mph, she waited in line with a bunch of 30-somethings who must have been in a wooden-bat league.  No comments, just a lot of stares because she was making as much contact as they were.  None of them moved up to 80.  It was open to Clare and Clare alone.

The faster the better, as far as my daughter is concerned.  She was merrily bashing away when a young woman came up to me, put her hand on my arm and asked, “Where does she play?”  Somebody was looking to do a little recruiting, but Clare wasn’t interested in slow pitch.  She did like the attention, though.

Me, too.