Beamed Balls...Practice

After opening day of baseball season, a male parent began to talk to my son and I about the best way to practice hitting. He advised that if you master his method, regardless of the speed of a pitched ball...you will hit it! Easy enough, right?

The Method (As described by said man): Purchase wiffle golf balls. Get a broomstick. Have mom/dad or said adult sit on a bucket about yeah distance away - from here to there (I'm depth and perception challenged...so say 10 feet away). Adult shall then throw the wiffle golf balls while said batter attempts to hit them. Batter will miss the first 20 or so pitches.

Easy enough, right? Off we went to the store and purchased three dozen wiffle golf balls. We debated the holes vs. no holes and went with the holes. 12 wiffle golf balls were 1.99 (-15%) whereas in the baseball aisle yellow colored wiffle golf ball sized 12 pack were 4.00. Then taking the smallest broom handle we own - which actually came from a child sized rake in the garage - I removed the rake and we had the "bat".

The weather wasn't really cooperating. I also didn't want to be chasing missed pitches and hits all around the yard. So what did I propose? (Really, I did graduate from college in three years - I realize one may not realize this, but honestly, I did!)...

Lock said dumb parent (aka myself) in the one car garaged with said 13 year old son to keep the balls in the garage. At first, to allow for air circulation we kept the garage open, which only allowed the balls to escape underneath. We eventually closed the garage door entirely - seeing that 36 wiffle golf balls can be thrown in a matter of minutes at most there was no way we were going to suffocate or trap ourselves with asphyxiation of my various gas cans and mowers!

Soon after beginning the process, my son started to get the hang of it. I'm sure you are much brighter and intelligent than I, so what happened?

I started getting beamed and pegged by wiffle golf balls. First it was the knee. Then it was the finger. Then it was the knuckle. The shin. The head. Ok, I may not be the brightest bulb!

When the line drive to the chest came, I couldn't help but scream, "Oh my God! I don't want to grow a third boobie!" as I wailed in subsequent pain. Needless to say, my son crossed his legs and doubled over in hysterics laughing, snorting and trying to get out, "You so did not just say that! That is SO WRONG!" Of course he continued to laugh. Me, I continued to grab my chest as if dying from a fatal shot (Afterall it was a rocket of a wiffle ball launched at me!)

Torture...is this what I signed up for? Of course it is...and since he beamed me in the neck I feared the hickie look to...maybe the bag over my head will be a better look for me!