Island Packet — Fall Ball is a form of baseball, and baseball is a form of sports, which means that my Little Man’s DNA is not configured to excel at it. Athletics do not come easy to this particular wing of the family tree, and by that I mean in high school, I lettered in stats keeping and that was about that. At some terrible day in the reasonably near future, my son will discover that, through no fault of his own, his cellular structure will seem to exist for the sole purpose of making him foul up athletic activities in as public a setting as possible, like in first-hour P.E. or in front of the entire girls’ basketball team, somehow.
He’ll learn that because his dad has some problems with the sports, something will happen when he picks up a football or basketball — his cells will immediately reconfigure themselves into a stew of bumbling, fumbling chaos. When my brain told my arm, “Throw the football with your right hand,” my left hand began moving for some reason. When my brain told my leg, “Take this football you’ve been handed and run like the devil, boy!” my legs began moving in completely separate directions. And when my brain said, “Just shoot the bad-word-ing free throw already, how is it possible that in 16 years on this planet no one has taught you to shoot a free throw without looking like someone just plugged a very old microwave into your nervous system and why are you thinking about this now just shoot, shoot, shoot,” the ball would careen off the backboard with a great and terrible CLANG.