After we returned home from Easter dinner at my parents’, Jedi and I set out to play an inning with the plastic bat and ball set the Bunny left amongst all the chocolate in his basket. Forget the ham and candy and even the brownie fudge sundae my mother later made as dessert. This game between my son and I turned out to be the best part of Easter.
We slapped high-five the few times the bat actually made contact with the soft ball. Most of the time it was bouncing off his helmeted head. There were no teams or me against you. We made our own rules. Keeping score was impossible, although I made it seem like he was winning.
It was fun, and that’s what matters.
I’ll admit, Jedi hasn’t inherited a lot of athletic ability. He’s terrified of his bicycle, constantly trips over his own two feet, and playing catch with him is more like fetch. So he won’t be a baseball player when he grows up, there are a million other options in front of him.
“You’re not very good at baseball.”, he told me as I lopped a pitch too low. You’re not very good, either, I wanted to tell him. Instead, we kept on laughing. Because we may not be good at baseball, but we are great at amusing ourselves.