After six months, this is Clare’s
last week of physical therapy. “I’m
going to do the towel drill!” she told us yesterday during our visit to her
apartment. This is an inside joke
between us, shorthand for any activity that makes next to no sense. “And I’m going to swing with a stick.” I should hope so.
My daughter plans to go to the
batting cages because hitting is her talent, her golf. She won’t be working to try out for the U.S.
national team, though she’d get no resistance from me if she did, whatever the
odds. No, Clare will hit because it’s
what she’s done since before the age of four, and, as Ted Williams could tell
you, practice makes perfect, or at least a .400 batting average every once in a
while.
“The first time it’ll be all bunts
on the first token, and on the second and on the third, then we’re done,” my
daughter informed me. “The second time,
all bunts the first two times, then swing away on the third token, and we’re
done.” The third time will be the charm,
swinging for the fences each and every time.
I can't wait.
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