Take me out to the ball game…

Lucy’s favorite sport is baseball.  “Play baseball with me, Daddy!”

Now you have to understand, “baseball” in this context is a sport typically played by kicking an inflated plastic or rubber ball around the front room.  I’ve tried to get her to call it “soccer” but haven’t really been successful.  So, baseball it is.

And there are CLEAR rules to the game.

Lucy will stand on one side of the living room and I’ll have to stand on the other.  If I don’t stand in my designated spot, I get a penalty flag.  “No, Daddy, THERE!”  Ok, sorry sweetie.

Then she’ll very slowly and as a HUGE smile creeps onto on her face, set the ball down on the floor.  “Ready.  Set.  KICK!”  At which point she leaps off the floor but somehow manages to make contact with the ball, sending it flying across the living room floor towards me.

Then it’s my turn.  I usually have a full two seconds after the ball leaves her foot before she comes tearing across the front room towards me.  I’m supposed to return the kick, which she will intentionally miss, and then exclaim “I ran right past it!”  She giggles, turns to see where my kick sent the ball, and retrieves it.

Wash, rinse, and repeat.

 

Now, just like with that “other” game of baseball, emotions can run high.  During one recent game, the ball went under the girls’ picnic table.  Lucy stopped, looked right at the ball lying under the far bench and, punctuating every word with a finger jab, exclaimed:

“THAT’S”

“NOT”

“NICE!”

Oh, you’ve done it now, Mr. Ball.  She’s so angry she may just leave you there for a day, just to show you who’s boss.  Maybe that will teach you to not dive under the bench like that.

 

It’s also not uncommon to have a foul ball.  During another game, she got a late start on the sprint-across-the-room and as a result she actually intercepted my return kick, sending the ball skittering away into the hallway and ultimately into her bedroom.  “Uh-oh, Lucy.  It’s in your room.  You should go get it.”

“No, DADDY get it!”

Me, with a healthy dose of mock-exasperation, “What do you mean ‘Daddy’ get it?!?  It’s in YOUR room!  Will you at least come with me?”

She ran ahead of me into her room, turned on the light, then quickly ran out saying “There you go, Daddy.”

 

I have never been accused of being a baseball fan, but this?  This warms my heart every time.  I LOVE this game.

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