In today's Heads or Tails, our stern taskmistress Barb, asks that we write about "soft." I am paranoid about this, but unsure: I don't know if she's making a reference to my midsection or my intellect. (The description fits either way.) But I'll pretend it doesn't... and go off in a different direction....When I was first coaching baseball at Bluejay Park (not its real name) I was the envy of all the other coaches in my very young age group (the kids' ages... not mine). I could toss batting practice to the kids so slow... so soft... that the kids could whack it all over the park, giving themselves confidence and their comrades fielding practice all at the same time. The entire time -- except when I was jumping for my life away from a screamer hit back up the middle -- I provided a steady patter of nonsense, about 'feeling the burn' and 'I won't be able to lift my arm tomorrow.' The other parents -- the other coaches especially -- thought this was very funny. No one who tossed as soft as I did could possibly ever strain my arm.
A lot they knew.
If only I could have retired then.
But, sadly, I kept coaching and the kids kept growing and, in the fullness of time, they needed someone who could throw the ball harder than I could. The other coaches thought I should continue throwing BP. But it was impossible: Soft as I threw, I was nevertheless throwing as hard as I could.
Timing is everything in this life.
3 comments:
Funny how the skill that helps us in one moment serves nothing in another. I bet those little ones loved you, nothing better than success. ~ Calico Contemplations
Hahahaa.. you caught me with the zinger at the end. :)
So in this case, soft was actually hard, or something like that.
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