Like Old Times

Clare thought it was close to a year, if not more.  I said it was more like nine months.  Either way, we went hitting last night after dinner.

My daughter came over in part because her fiancé basically doesn’t exist outside of work Saturday-Monday, in season; Tuesday-Friday it’s only twelve hours or so a day.  Of course, I’m more than happy to help fill up her time.

When it was over, Clare confessed to how nervous she was.  “I thought I was going to really stink.”  She didn’t.  Oh, she showed some rust in her first ten or so swings, but that pretty much disappeared midway through the second token.  Balls soon went “Whack!” and “Bong!”, the first from hitting the wooden canopy over the pitching machines at Stella’s, the second from hitting one of the two vertical metal roof supports that go some thirty-five feet.

If I say my daughter hit well at 70-75-80 miles-per-hour, there needs to be an asterisk attached.  The machines are no more than forty feet from the batter, so balls are coming in good deal faster than advertised.  If I were a physics’ major, I might be able to work up a formula, but I’m not.  I will, however, tack on another 10 mph for every speed, 7.5 mph if you threaten me with a beating.

On the drive back home, Clare told me how frustrating it is not to be involved with softball.  So far, the jobs haven’t broken for her that way.  As it is, most people would say work at the Kellogg School of Management is a pretty good gig.  But if you ever saw my daughter hit, you’d know why she wants in on the game.  Walt Hriniak, meet your match as a hitting coach.

Before Clare left, we had our traditional end-of-summer S’mores.  And then she gone, back to her new life.