The boys love baseball. This is largely due to the fact that Brian and I love baseball and also that we're teachers, so explaining things to kids is kind of second nature to us. As situations come up, we explain them, usually in detail. And we watch and listen to a lot of the Nats games. They know way more about baseball than I did at their age.
We play baseball with them at the playground, the park, the yard (though I've been pretty slow in this department this spring), we play baseball with them in the living room, we watch them playing baseball together all the time- inside and outside- and we overhear them talking about baseball too. But they don't only talk about hitting the ball and pitching the ball, they talk about intentional walks and old school windups and fastballs and sliders and split-finger change-ups. They wonder about bad calls and ejections and pick-offs and steal signs. Why isn't there a second base coach, only first and third? They practice their bunting and their diving catches and their double-play transfers. They work out. They slam into fences (walls of the house) and rob hitters of home runs. They slide head-first and feet-first into bases. And they do each play at least twice, because there's always the slow-motion replays that need to happen. It's a little out of control.
A couple weeks ago at the pool we ran into some friends from Blastball. Clark went over to the little boy, who was busy watching other kids playing in the water and hadn't seen us. Clark leaned over right to his ear, and announced proudly in his deepest announcer's voice, "It's Claaaaaaaark Crossssssson!" I realize this will only be cute for a little while longer.
Sometimes Clark will be gazing quietly into the distance and then ask me, "Do you know what I'm thinking about?" No, Clark, tell me. "I'm thinking about my diving catch I made in Blastball." (This catch, while impressive, was at least two months ago.)
Well, as of last night we have proof that they not only play and talk about baseball every day, they also dream about it. Brian got Clark up to take him to the bathroom at about 11pm. As he lifted Clark up out of his bed into a standing position on the floor, Clark said, in his announcer's voice, "Clark's in the batter's box!"
He did go potty, so I guess he had a productive at-bat.
I'm wondering how the little ball players will include Baby Peapod in their play as he gets older. I bet he'll develop into one heck of a backstop.
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| Blastball-ers in a scramble for the ball |
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