Laying the Foundation

Anytime my grandson comes over, we have to hit. Nest month, he turns four. Clare has been working on fundamentals: positioning the feet; holding the bat; seeing the ball. Considering the results, you wouldn’t know Leo’s four weeks short of turning four. But he is. Last week was the first time I’ve pitched with wiffle balls; the sooner Leo uses regulation-sized equipment, the better, I think. The wiffle-ball bat is longish, the ball just about the same size as a league. This way, what he does in the yard will seem just like what they do on TV. He’s been hitting the ball hard ever since late last summer. Until last week, the big problem has been focus. Kids get goofy, at least this one did after awhile. Swing for the fences; fall to the ground; and just lay there. That kind of thing. But last week was different. My grandson stood there, a smirk on his face. He got that from me, because that’s what I do when I’m pitching. It’s a simple way of communicating the disregard pitchers have for hitters. And the little punk was giving it back to me. And then hitting me, almost literally. Balls hit the fence and one of the Chihuly globes we have hanging in the yard; St. Franics, a woman and elephant, all in statue form, are other popular targets. Did I mention my forehead? This went on for a good twenty minutes, which isn’t bad for someone that old, or outrageously young. My grandson particularly enjoys going with me to retrieve the balls from our neighbor’s yard. We open the gate; make sure there are no cars racing down the alley; and proceed accordingly to the next gate. Then we reverse the process, until right before our gate. Then my grandson tries to lock the old man out. And we go back to hitting. Duck.