Youngest child has joined a baseball team. She knows virtually nothing about baseball. We took her to one Blue Jays game, where she learned that you can buy an enormous Coke and a paper plate of French fries (that is, if your parents thought ahead and sold the family silver).
I took her to her first game. She was delighted to go, because two of her best friends were on her team. The rest was pretty much irrelevant. Nonetheless, she had to go to bat when it was her turn. One pitch: strike. Two pitches: strike two.. Three pitches: strike three. But wait. Four pitches: strike four! And so on, and so on. It turns out the little kids can bat until the pitcher (aka the manager, i.e. a grown up) gets bored. Then, even if the child hasn't managed to hit the ball, he or she may still run. It's like rounders in England: the players get to make up the rules as they go along. So off daughter goes, heading for first, confused but happy. Next up is daughter's very good chum. Again, one, two, three, four, five (etc.) strikes, and then - strike me pink- this child hits the ball! She runs to first base. My daughter, delighted for her friend, stands there with open arms, waiting to greet her with an enormous hug. They dance in circles, in each other's arms, around the square white cushion. 'Run! Run! Run!' we're all screaming at daughter. Eventually she looks up from her celebration, catches the drift, and trots off, smiling, to second base.
I see some practicing in our future...
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