Bullseye

So when Abi is up to bat this coming softball season, perhaps a new jersey design is in order; something more like this:

We had our first practice of the season Sunday afternoon. In the ear-freezing breezes my father-in-law pitched softballs to us in turn. The very first pitch he sailed gently, leaf-on-the-wind style in my direction. I crushed it, probably flattening one side of the ball from the blow. Or maybe it was the contact with my father-in-law's shin that dented the ball. A second pitch came flying. This one seemed nye on determined to obliterate the pitcher's second shin. Once is a fluke, twice is bad luck. It couldn't happen three times.

Of course it couldn't. Because my father-in-law still has some strain of gazelle-like agility that barely skittered him out of the way of my third swing, which was headed straight for that knee of his, which needs replacing.

And it doesn't matter how much you swear up and down that you didn't mean it, after three bone shattering hits a man starts to get nervous. The poor man will probably jump every time I open a bag of chips at a barbeque now.

I really didn't mean to. Which you can tell the five inch red and blue welt on his tibia.