This week has been notable for its physicality, namely by the number of baseball-based games I've played. Memorial Day weekend offered up a brutal triple-header of one-on-one Whiffle ball with Robert, who somehow managed to beat me all three times by hitting a game-winning homer in the bottom of the ninth. (What are the odds?) In fact, he hit 34 dingers that day, a career for most people. So if you have him in your fantasy league you should be feeling awfully good about yourself right about now.
Tuesday was the company outing/barbecue, so I spent the morning pitching softballs at people I work with. Pitcher is the best position in softball, because you rarely field the ball. In fact, you really don't have to move much at all. You are the closest fielder to the batter, though, so you have to factor in that your beer is vulnerable to a line shot back up the middle.
Because I got out of work early, I was able to pick Robert up at school and shepherd him and TwoBert off for Whiffle ball with six other five-year-olds, all of whom insisted on batting at the same time. Before too long the game devolved into a free-for-all flailfest, as I pitched into the crowd and ruminated about whether our insurance covers abrupt facial trauma.
I had planned to write a blog post that night, but after I managed to wobble home (pushing the stroller with my good arm), get dinner, run the bath, play Legos, and get the boys to bed, I completely face-planted. I am, apparently, getting too old for this shit.
Wednesday was momentous, because we finally seem to have solved TwoBert's thirst for inclusion in our Whiffle-ball marathons. Things had gotten a bit sticky on the diamond of late, because Robert likes to fling the bat after every hit (median distance, about 30 yards). TwoBert likes to scamper over and claim it while Robert runs the bases and refuses to relinquish it until he gets a turn. Innings were stretching into forever until an idea flashed into the old melon: have TwoBert play the field in his trike! Of course he can't pedal at all yet, so when Robert launches one I push TwoBert after it at top speed. It's a win-win for everyone: TwoBert cackles giddily at the high-speed chase, Robert gets to pad his homer stats, and Daddy spends less time with TwoBert's armed desperately clutched around his thighs.
Summer is only two weeks away, and I've got to learn to pace myself. At this rate of exertion I'll be down to a 28" waist by August. I'm relying on the unlikely assumption that my college reunion this weekend will help me recharge my batteries.
I think I'm fooling myself.