There May Be No Crying In Baseball, but There Sure Is A Lot of Cursing

TIME: Approximately 4:30, on a Sunday afternoon in May.

PLACE: Casa Del Gumbo, the living room.  Beneath our feet, a bare hardwood floor (Remember that; it matters later in the story).


CAST:  Wee Lass and yours truly.  I'm shod in a pair of slightly worn Dearfoams slippers. (Also remember that; it too becomes important).

We had been home from our road trip about an hour, and the darlin' daughter was of a mind to throw down on some Wii sports, an activity I was (at first) of my own mind to avoid.  She wanted to play some baseball, which held little appeal for me as I was 1) Tired and 2) Still irked I hadn't mastered the art of the swing with the controller.  At first, I said no.

She booted up the sports, and decided to play baseball against the machine.  Watching her, I was surprised and delighted to note that she was actually getting good (digital) contact on the (digital) ball.  She asked me again to play.  A few flashes of those baby blues, and I relented.

So there I was, crouched in front of the TV, feeling a little foolish trying to get the bat to hang right by fidgeting with the controller, waving it back and forth to get the haft of the thing out of my avatar's head.  Wee Lass is off to the side waiting to throw the first pitch, which she does with more enthusiasm than form.

As is my habit, I swung at the pitch.  I always do, it's a reflex.  But remember I said I was standing on a hardwood floor?  Wearing slightly worn Dearfoam slippers?

Well, apparently Dearfoams has discovered a new material for slipper bottoms.  One that has almost zero coefficient of friction.  I had swung at that pitch pretty hard, and the momentum of the swing combined with the lack of grip on the floor caused my feet to slide completely out from underneath me.  I crashed down to the floor hard, like the proverbial ton of bricks.  I landed on my right side, bruising my hip, skinning my knee and bruising my upper right arm in the process.

That s**t hurt.

So I'm laying there on the floor in a haze of pain, trying not to curse.  It was then I heard two things.  First, the chirpy little Wii stadium announcer saying in a cheerful voice "You're OUT!"

Second, laughter.  That's right.  LAUGHTER.  I look up at my precious daughter, the apple o' my eye, light o' my life...and she's laughing at me and hopping up and down in uncontained glee. She looks right at me and says:

"DADDY! DADDY! I got you! I got you!  ON A 71 MILE-PER-HOUR FASTBALL!!!"

Gee, thanks, kiddo.  Now, could you please call the paramedics?