The Hard Taco song for April is called "Dilettantes." This song will get into your head, and creepily watch you sleep (from the inside.)
Baseball brings fathers and sons together. The smell of freshly cut grass. The crack of the bat. Some other stuff, probably. It's a language that we all speak. There is no wound deep enough that it can't be healed by a quick game of catch with your ghost dad.
Malcolm and I learned these lessons from Field of Dreams. Since we watched it together a few months ago, he couldn't wait for Spring so he could join Little League.
His first practice was this week, and when I came to pick him up, Coach Andy was timing each of the players as they ran the bases. I showed up just as Malcolm was finishing his sprint.
"17.3 seconds," the coach announced.
A few minutes later, practice broke up, and Malcolm ran over to the fence to put his glove into his baseball bag. I asked if he had fun.
"Yep!" he said brightly, accepting my high five through the fence. Then, after a pause, "Guess what... I'm the slowest player on the team!"
I didn't know if 17.3 seconds was a good time, but I suspected it might not be. Only one other player ran after Malcolm, and when that kid found out that he clocked in at 16.3 seconds, he ripped off his hat, threw it on the ground, and let out a primal cry of despair.
Okay, then. I don't know baseball statistics, but I'm quite facile with the Transitive Property: If A < B and B = C, then A < C. In other words, if Malcolm is slower then Unstable Kid, and Unstable Kid is slow enough to throw a tantrum about it, Malcolm is slow enough to throw a tantrum about it.