That’s right, I’m writing about sports. Who would have thought this day would come? But I’m not here to talk about Major League Baseball. I don’t really care about the Mets, Yankees, Red Sox, Citi Field or roid testing. I am, however, very keyed in to the season opener this Saturday – of the Taconic Little League. Yup, my six year old is about to start his second season.

Check this out, though. No more tee ball. Can you believe it? For whatever reason, our league decided to abandon tee ball this year. That means my first-grader has to hit a pitched ball. Oh my. Needless to say, we’ve been doing some practicing at home because he most definitely has inherited Daddy’s  native skills.

At the second practice a couple days ago when the coach (an amazingly patient and great guy) said, “OK, let’s try and catch some high pops,” I burst out laughing. Hysterical laughter. Like, Cesar Romero as the 60s Joker laughing. I seriously thought there was a visit to the reconstructive dentist in our immediate future. So far, though, the only ball to hit him in the face was thrown by yours truly, and it really just glanced off his cheek.

No, I wasn’t using him for target practice. The last couple days it has been pretty warm in the morning. While waiting for the bus we’ve been throwing the ball around. He’s actually keeping his eyes open now and is getting fairly decent at catching my version of high pops.

Plus, I’m getting some exercise in the morning. I mean, it’s no major fat burner or anything, but it’s better than my usual morning workout of reaching for a coffee cup and lifting the kettle. And he did whip one by me this morning. It rolled straight down the driveway and across the street. Suddenly I was 9 years old again, scampering for a loose ball, casting glances left and right before darting across the street.

Got a little winded there. I guess baseball season has officially started.