Not for lack of trying
on dad’s part
was I always uninterested in sports.
We didn’t have softball or baseball leagues when I was a kid, though lots of the kids would play in our yard- slices of old, dead oaks as bases, the neighbor kids would swarm around and smack a ball around just about every summer’s day. Me, I’d rather be reading. But on a fine summer day, dad came out to the yard with a mitt and a ball and a bat, bound and determined to get me interested in baseball.
Hell, why not? I thought, if i could get to the point where I wouldn’t embarrass myself not being able to throw, or catch, or hit the ball, I might just enjoy this. besides, the couple of girls in the neighborhoos would sometimes also play, and I was just beginning to notice the dirfference between girls and boys, so what the hell.
So dad and I tossed the ball back and fourth- he catching the ball regularly, me dropping it with the same regularity. He got frustrated with me, but to his credit, he never yelled or chided me, he only encouraged.
Anyway, after some time he decided maybe if I couldn’t catch the ball I might be able to swat it. So he stood me up over a 2″ slice of white oak as a plate, and started tossing the ball. Here I did a little better, actually making contact with a few balls, but most of them went foul.
“I want you to try to hit it straight out here, ok?”
I had been trying to hit the ball but not hit dad, but he assured me he’d get out of the way, so I swung, hit, and he caught it in midair
I felt like a million dollars. He grinned from ear to ear. And threw the ball again.
I flung that bat around with all my might, connected,
And hit him directly in the face.
The ball hit him right between the eyes, and laid him out like a mackerel. Oh My God! I killed dad! I flung the bat and ran out to him, where he was groaning, rolled over on his side, levered himself to his feet, all the time telling me it wasn’t my fault as i cried and apologised.
Don’t think I ever picked up a bat again while he was alive.
For the rest of his life the top of his nose was shaped like the curve of a baseball..
May have contributed to my disinterest in the sport.

I am bad, that story should not make me laugh.
I think a lot of my early lack of success at ball-and-bat games was my poor vision.
“Keep your eye on the ball!” they’d tell me. I never could see the damned thing. So I whiffed ’em. Connecting was more a matter of luck than anything.
Then the next one was “Straighten it out!” Yeah. Right. I can’t see the ball. I’m lucky if I connect at all. Now you want me to CONTROL where it goes?
I gave it up as a bad job.
M
It must be tough for a dad to realize his son is not only a spaz, but a dangerously lethal spaz.
Got whacked by a hard line drive, straight in the temple when I was a kid.
Come to think of it, that may explain some things…
LOL! yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot of ways I disapointed dad.
I dumped my dad out of a canoe once when I was a kid, about 11 I think. Pulled it too far up a steep bank while landing it and over he went.
We used to laugh about that.
I wish I could still laugh with him about it. Today (August 5) is my folks’ 57th wedding anniversary, seventh since he died.