I’m not only re blogging this because my son wrote it but because I think it’s pretty darn good! Enjoy!
I should be waking up in a cold sweat every night with reoccurring dreams of being a childhood failure.
When I was a kid, I played on my home town’s little league baseball team. I chose the outfield because it meant I could make little dirt volcanos with my cleats and pray that the other team didn’t have the motor skills to hit a ball further than second base. The other team always picked up on this and made sure to hit every ball my way. It meant I had to quickly throw it back to the infield with a technique that resembled a man with spaghetti arms trying to swat a fly.
My dad signed me up for this every spring for about four years after my nine seasons of soccer proved to be a waste of time (the only thing I learned was how to use an orange peel…
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