Wednesday, October 17, 2007

A New "Little"

In my last update on being a Big Brother with Big Brothers/Big Sisters, I mentioned that I had a new “Little”. However, before I got a chance to meet him, his family moved away.

So, I’ve been matched up with a new “Little.” This little guy is ten years old and wants to try various restaurants.

Bingo!

Really. He said that. I’m not making it up. He also wants to go skating.

Bingo again! The ice rink opens in one month and I love my ice rink. We're off to a good start.

However, the social worker’s email said he also “envisions playing baseball with his Big.”

Uh-oh. . . (sound of brakes screeching)

Needless to say, I hated playing baseball during phys ed class while growing up. I was horrible at sports. Just horrible. When they picked sides, I was always the last one chosen. Over and over and over. For years and years and years.

One time when I was in the fifth grade, a fly ball came at me and, of course, I didn’t catch it. I can still remember the horror of watching that ball rising and falling high above me, holding my arms out like a Barbie Doll with rigor mortis, and the ball landing about twenty feet away. Helen Keller would have made a better fielder than I.

Afterwards, a boy named Leroy was teasing me about it. I got mad. Really mad. I can also still remember the look of astonishment on his face when I said, “Leroy, just shut your fucking mouth!” (I was pretty astonished as well for saying “that word”)

He ran off and told the principal, Mr. Shroyer. I was quickly summoned to his office but let off with a warning. Mr. Shroyer was probably wanting to give me, the quiet kid who played the piano, a high-five for standing up for myself. R-rated language notwithstanding.

I don’t think I’ll be relaying my baseball story to the Little. Nor will I be telling him my other words of wisdom regarding baseball. For example, that right field sees the least amount of action during a game. (Unless the batter is a lefty, and that’s when you quickly trade with the left-fielder). Also, keep scooting to the end of bench so that you’ll never be up at bat. That works too.

Tricks of the trade, kid. Tricks of the trade. . .

I’m sure there are plenty of other things we can do besides playing baseball. I’ll be glad to take him to a baseball game and pay to watch professionals perform that activity. That's what they're there for. No problem.

And as long as it’s not above 70 degrees.

6 Comments:

At 9:27 PM , Anonymous MHP :) said...

Dooder, you're hilarious!!

I loved the "Barbie Doll with rigor mortis" comment!--muhahahahaha! :)

Love,

Poodle :)

 
At 11:48 PM , Blogger Buck said...

MHP: I KNEW you'd like that phrase!

 
At 9:31 AM , Blogger Citymouse said...

dont worry too much about the baseball thing. usually the kids are happy playing catch!

 
At 11:39 AM , Blogger Buck said...

Playing catch???
You've gotta be kidding.

 
At 2:24 PM , Blogger Lorraine said...

Uncle Iwanski can teach you both to play baseball.

 
At 1:28 AM , Blogger Kimberly Ann said...

Your post gave me PTSD flashes from all my gym classes starting back in 7th grade. Of course, the topper was when I was playing flag football and actually managed to catch the ball. Too bad I ran to the end zone for the other team. Yeah, that was a bad, bad day...

 

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