Still Swingin'

I would never admit to my daughter that I might be the tiniest bit proud of her.  At 26, she’s managed to find a good job at the Kellogg School of Management, and this off of what was supposed to be temp work.  She’s planned her June wedding down to a t (and replanned it several times since).  Yesterday, after splitting her work day between Evanston and the Gold Coast (Kellogg is a part of Northwestern University, and work takes her to both campuses), Clare swung over to the West Loop, picked up Michele and then drove to Berwyn to go hitting.

What’s it been, eight weeks or ten?  To insure against embarrassment, I got an extra token, thirteen instead of the usual twelve.  “Bunt the first five pitches, ‘butcher boy’ the next,” I instructed.  Keeping her swing short to start things off seemed the best way to shake off rust in the form of swings and misses.  I ought to get a job in this line of work, I was so right.  Thirteen tokens, 130 pitches seen, not one swing and a miss.  The girl’s still got it.

The best part of taking Clare hitting—after watching her, that is—comes from seeing how people react to a young woman taking her swings at the highest speeds.  The two boys from St. Laurence, my alma mater, didn’t say anything; after all, teenaged males have fragile egos that might be bruised from admitting a girl can hit.  The two fathers were fun, though.

The first was probably in his mid-thirties, his five-year old girl in tow.  “Where does she play?” he wanted to know.  The answer allowed me to give career highlights.  “See?” the dad asked his girl.  See how hard she hits and how far the ball goes?

The second father was older, and his boy wasn’t nearly as interested in what Clare had to show.  The man went up to Clare as she exited the batting cage and asked her to tell his son it’s OK that your hands hurt sometime from hitting.  We’ve been at the cages in the dead of winter, played games in the cold damp of March.  Oh, yeah, hands and wrists will hurt from making contact with a ball.  Alas, the boy didn’t want to hear any such message.

Clare stayed over for dinner.  How’d hitting go?” Michele asked on her return.  “Terrible,” I said in the way of all fathers slow to compliment their children.  But the truth came out soon enough.  It had to.