Play Ball!

I was going to spend the day contemplating the social significance of Britney Spears' return to the stage last night. What affect would her brief, semi-clad, stripper influenced, lip sync fest have on the world at large? I spent a few moments ogling her miraculously taunt post baby abs then realized that I had bigger fish to fry. Today is "Daughter's" opening day for the 2007 softball season.

After a few weeks of mostly rain delayed practice, it's time for the team to take the field. I'm both excited and nervous. Excited because I know "Daughter" is looking forward to playing and I like to watch, but nervous because I know that I am always in danger of becoming "that dad". You know the guy I mean. The frustrated athlete trying to regain his unfulfilled sports dream through his kid. The dad who paces behind the dugout fence constantly screaming instructions to his kid, arguing with the teenage umpires, and in general making an ass out of himself. I noticed last season that this was not the exclusive domain of fathers however. There were quite a few moms who must have taken elocution lessons from sailors on shore leave. I made great strides last season as far as keeping my mouth shut. I tried to just shout compliments to all the players after a good play. It's tough though. Those punk kid umps make some lousy calls. Anyone ever hear of a strike zone?

This season, "Daughter" decided that she wanted to be a catcher. She caught a couple of games last season and liked it, so she made the proclamation to us a few months before the season started. Being the insane modern day parents that we are, "Wife" and I decided that "Daughter" should start seeing a "Catching Coach." Listen, what's the point of playing a position if you don't play it well? Look, I'm getting to be "that dad" right here. Any way, "Daughter" has been taking lessons and really seems to be adjusting to life behind the plate. She still doesn't like when I refer to her gear as the "tools of ignorance", but she has no sense of baseball history. I like the fact that "Daughter" has put herself in a skill position. I also like that I get to be a little more involved. Putting on all that gear takes some help, and I'm just the guy to do it. It's almost like I'm a specialized coach except that I don't have a uniform and I rarely wear a cup.

I tried to convince "Daughter" that she needed a good catcher's nickname. The only problem is that most of the great catchers all were nicknamed "Pudge". While that makes sense, since they have to be wide and low to the ground, it doesn't seem like a good thing to be hollering out to a ten year old girl in the heat of battle. I'll just have to call her by name until I have a flash of genius and come up with something better. It's just about time to start loading up the equipment and stretching out "Daughter's" throwing arm. I'm also fitting myself with a gag and forcing myself to remember that the most important thing is that the girls have fun. Sure it is. Tell that to the chumps in last place. See you at the ball yard. Later...Brian