The pride of a certain
Big Ten school of management visited her parents last night. It being March, we went to hit before we
ate. The rust in the swing was to be
expected after two-plus months of inactivity.
Spring is the best time
to go to the batting cages, all those big-league dreams and weird swings
crowded together. First a father, then
his son commented on what “a good swing” Clare had. The boy couldn’t have been more than eight. He was perched next to me, hands on the top railing,
feet on the middle bar. “She played
baseball first,” I told him.
“That’s why she has such
a good swing,” he answered. Out of the
mouth of a child….
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