A not-so-friendly game of baseball


After baseball practice, my 10-year-old son wanted to play a game.  Being the good mother that I am, I agreed thinking it would be a harmless game with him and my 6-year-old.  I mean…he’s a kid…what could he do to me?  Oh…plenty my dear friends!  For starters, he has a killer arm.  Justin Verlander, a pitcher for the Tigers, is his idol, so you can only imagine what’s going through his mind as he’s standing at the pitcher’s mound.  Fearing for my life, I dodged many of his balls.  There were people watching, so I grew a pair and decided to hit one his pitches.  We were playing with an aluminum bat and I soon came to the conclusion that I would NEVER play with one again.  When I made contact with the ball with the bat, I also made it with my body.  My bones rattled from my fingertips to my teeth.  Dazed, I ran slowly and he got me out at 2nd base.  Not cool at all.  Then…it was my son’s turn to bat.  He concentrates more on his pitching ability, so I thought to myself, “this kid’s goin’ down!”.  I was dead wrong.  I pitched, he hit and he ran…fast.  I jogged into left field to get the ball and thought to myself, “I’m gonna take this kid out”.  Bad idea.  He was rounding 2nd and I started sprinting towards 3rd.  He ran faster.  I ran faster.  He slid into 3rd right in front of me and the only thing that went through my mind was an episode of SpongeBob Squarpants when Squidward says, “Help…we’re goin’ down!”.  I was goin’ down.  In slow-motion.  I knew it before it even started happening.  I tripped over him.  In order to save my chin (oh yeah…a chin plant was imminent), I had to toss the ball and throw my hands out in front of me and twist my hips to the left.  It was all downhill from there.  I soon felt the searing white-hot pain of my flesh being scraped from my hands, arm and shoulder as I made contact with the gravel.  I tumbled onto my right hip and instantly knew it had been knocked out of socket.  I rolled around in the gravel laugh-crying because I was in and outside of my body at the same time and could see and feel the pain I endured.  Once I was able to limp away from the “scene-of-all-atrocities”, my son kindly brushed the dirt off of me and helped me to the bench.  When I was able to catch my breath, I asked him why he slid right in front of me when he knew it meant he was taking his own mother out.  He simply said, “I wanted to be safe.”  Well…I find that quite interesting because all I cared about was having a nice, friendly game of baseball with my loving son.  Instead, I have a throbbing headache, a mildly dislocated hip, skinless hands and arms and a strange popping sound coming from my lower back!  All because I decided to “take the kid out”.  What a fool I was.  My bruises and scabs have healed over nicely…my bruised ego…not so much.  10-year-olds…puh!   

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