Having a ball (which, I’m sure you’ll agree, seems much more wholesome than my first two choices: ‘Balls’ and ‘My kid’s got balls’)

Have I mentioned that I’m coaching tee-ball? What? Oh, c’mon, now you’re just exaggerating. “A million times”? I don’t think so. You’re such a drama queen. Sheesh.

Well, in any case, I’m still coaching tee-ball.

Last night, we had our first 5 p.m. game, and thank sweet Jesus, because all of our previous Monday-night games have been at 6:15 p.m., and here’s the thing about playing a tee-ball game at 6:15 p.m.: it is wayyyy too late a time at which to start an activity for 5- and 6-year-old kids on a school night … especially when one 5-year-old—the coach’s son, for example—has a 3-year-old sister, and the whole family doesn’t get home from the game until after 7:30, at which point both children—who, on any other night, would most likely be in bed already—must be gunned down with tranquilizer darts in order to carry out the belated bedtime process.

So, anyway, our first 5 o’clock game was an interesting affair, as we set up the bases on a soaking wet outfield—which was our best option when faced with the prospect of instead playing on a soaking-wet-and-muddy-as-a-pig-pen baseball diamond. No good could have come of that.

A few kids found out firsthand just how slippery wet turf can be when they ran after the ball and their feet grabbed zero traction when they tried to stop, and their legs flew out from under them, and they landed rather squarely upon their asses.

“Part of the game, guys!” I hollered as I complimented them on their hustle while simultaneously thinking that if I had soaked myself through while playing baseball at age 5, I’d have said “Fuck this shit” and insisted on being brought home … so kudos to my guys for sucking it up and hanging in there without complaint.

After we completed our final turn in the field, the coach for the other team was getting his players ready to head back out so that we could bat again. Problem was, I thought we were done, so I asked the other coach if he had lost track, or if I had lost track … and he said I was right, we were done.

We each lined up our teams, did the high-five, “Good game”-thing, loaded up the gear while all the kids and their parents left, and started to head back to our respective cars—at which point the other coach said, “Hey, wait, you guys were supposed to bat one more time.”

And if you’ll step right this way, I’ll give you a tour of my Temple of Neurosis, because shit like that? I obsess about it. It’s 27 hours later, and I’m still disturbed by the fact that I fucked up and robbed my guys of their turn to hit again, especially given that hitting is the part of the game that interests and excites them the most.

Also, I really wanted Zan to get another chance to hit, because he’s had some trouble hitting off the tee the past few games; thing is, the kid’s been hitting live pitching since he was about two-and-a-half years old, and he seems to be more comfortable with that than with hitting a stationary ball.

My staff photographer didn’t shoot last night’s game, but let’s take a look at last Saturday’s action.

He strides confidently to the plate.

He steps into the batter’s box and gets himself into his batting stance, unassisted. (Yes, I’m bragging about my son’s mad baseball skillz, yo.)

Have you ever seen a better looking batting stance, ever, on anyone, let alone a 5-year-old? Huh? Have you? No, you haven’t. Shush.

He measures his distance from the ball. Spot-on. He winds up, swings, and …

Doh! He hit the tee. OK, no worries. Let’s try that again.

Gah! He hit the tee again! (Actually, this happens to every kid, though some more than others. Hitting the tee twice is, for Zan, a rarity. I believe my record with one of the other kids is, like, nine or 10 times … after which I held the bat with him and basically swung both the bat and the child so that he could get a hit and we could all move on with our lives.)

“Take your time, buddy,” I tell Zan. “It’s just you and the ball.”

He winds up, brings the bat around hard, connects and …

hits a little dribbler that just makes it onto the infield grass.

No problem, though. He hustled down to first base, and, a few batters later, gave me some skin on his way across the plate.

But here’s where the kid really impresses me:

After spending over an hour on the field getting ready for, and then playing, his regularly scheduled game, he wanted to get in some live-pitch batting practice.

My brother, a.k.a. Uncle Scratches, was behind the plate with the lovely Jayna (who, moments earlier, was enjoying a popsicle, in case you’re interested).

According to the tee-ball schedule hanging on ye ol’ refrigerator, the remaining handful of games for this season are listed as “coach-pitch” … and if my pitching to Zan on Saturday afternoon is any indication, I am about to become the team’s weakest link. As I’ve mentioned, my brief childhood baseball career was far from noteworthy, and I sure as hell was never the pitcher, so watching me try to toss an easily hittable pitch into a strike zone shrunken to accommodate a group of kids averaging under 4-feet tall will likely be one of the most unintentionally hysterical things anyone has ever seen.

The few times I did miraculously manage to get a ball over the plate, Zan connected for a couple of crisp grounders, so while I might not end up having the best time with the whole coach-pitch thing, I’m pretty sure he’s going to enjoy it much more than hitting off a tee.

As if getting in some extra hitting practice wasn’t enough, the kid wanted to practice fielding, too … so we had our first-ever session of me hitting him some fungos.

I continue to marvel at his enthusiasm for the game, and, despite all of the chaos and madness that accompany being a coach, I also continue to be very grateful for having this unexpected experience with my son. This kind of thing was not part of my childhood. I am glad he and I are making it part of his.