For example, while waiting for our dinner at the counter that overlooks the kitchen in our favorite pizza joint, I politely asked the gentleman flipping the dough, “How old I have to be to work at JT’s?”. His reply, “17”.
Or, while watching the friendly warehouse employee at Home Depot (as he tested the payload of the hi-lo he was maneuvering), “How old I have to be to drive one of those?” His (somewhat snarky) reply, “18! It’s state law!”
I store all of this important information deep in the bowels of my brain for recall at a later date.
Such was the case after my 4th birthday…I recalled a conversation that occurred while watching the only program on my parent’s television from March until October…Tigers Baseball.
I dug deep into the Memory Palace and pulled out a little tidbit of information regarding the age requirements for playing T-Ball…BAM! It was 4!
So for the next month straight, I asked my Mom when was opening day for the YMCA?!?
The day finally came! Dad as coach…check. Cleats on…check. Blue bat…check. Lefty mitt…check. White t-shirt with red sleeves…check. What more could I need to start my career as a future hall of famer?
Not surprisingly, the day didn’t go as smoothly as I (or anyone trying to tame this wild fire) expected. Because not included on my all-important checklist was some working knowledge of baseball basics…that would have been helpful.
My dad and the three other well-intentioned souls spent 70 minutes essentially herding 12 cats. The hitting drills, fielding drills and calisthenics looked nothing like Miguel Cabrera stepping up to the plate to go for another triple-crown. So I took it upon myself to try and reenact my favorite Tiger’s legendary presence.
With lawn chairs full of spectators (including my nanny and pappy), I stepped up to the tee. Still undetermined if I hit left or right, I squared up, swung back, and let that ball fly all of 10 feet right to the pitcher. And just as I practiced at home, I held onto the bat and ran after the ball in hopes of fielding my hit ball and starting the process all over again.
Little did I know, there are TWO teams and it is not my job to field my own hit.
Like I said…important information that would have been nice to know BEFORE my at-bat.
It took some convincing, but I eventually ran to first base (and by convincing, I mean the desperate first base coach lured me there with the promise I could punch him in the gut when I arrived).
My first great offensive display continued with a leisurely walk to second base (once the batter behind me arrived on the base I was occupying).
On to third (with my batting helmet covering my eyes because I had turned it backwards).
Then home, but not before I swung by the on-deck circle to take the bat from my teammate who was patiently waiting his turn to bat (although his patience ran out right about the same time I swiped the bat, and he ran after me yelling, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!?”)
And with that my batting and on-base percentage was 100%! Not a bad start to what I think will be a lifelong career of being a pain in the ass…I mean playing baseball!
See you at the All-Star game, Miggy!
