One Fat Lip and a Bruised Shin Bone later...

It's axiomatic in baseball that you MUST always stay in front of the ball (as an infielder) better to get beaned and have the ball drop in front of you than move to the left or right and allow the ball to get out of the infield. That concept is probably the hardest thing to teach to youngsters as they're learning the game. The mind has a natural inclination to avoid an eight ounce object hurtling toward you at 100+mph. As a matter of honor I never dodge the ball.

So it was on Sunday that we all packed up and went to Balboa Park for a game of "catch", did a couple of illegal things like drinking wine, beer and smoking cigarettes. It was a thrill I can tell you, as you might of guessed from a previous post I was on the lookout for the mounted police. Luckily, they did not show up.

After we'd bivouacked, I pick up my mitt and called to my brother to toss the ball around. My brother is a very good ball player although he admits to not picking up a baseball in a couple of years. It's a beautiful day in America's Finest City (San Diego) in a lovely pastoral setting (homeless folks notwithstanding) and we're enjoying America's Favorite pastime.

When you're playing catch you start off slow and close... to get warmed up.
Gradually, you drift farther and farther apart and start throwing the ball harder. That's how it works. No sense throwing out your arm in the first five minutes. After about 10 minutes, we're warmed up, now we're experimenting with knuckle balls, change ups, sliders, curves, et al. All in all we're having a great time.

As happens in this "game", a throw will occasionally get away from you. My brother throws a fast ball in the dirt, my honor at stake I stay in front of the ball but the ball misses the mitt. Instead, a 75mph (he'll dispute the speed) short hopped into my right shin bone.

Jeez, that hurt! !

Gawd, that more than hurt! ! !

Walk it off...

Don't be a wuss.

Alright, I'll be okay. So, we continue the game but to make it more interesting my brothers' son decides to join the fracas. Of course that is totally OK, we must as men (and fathers) hand down the great tradition of baseball to our progeny, he's new to baseball but seems a natural, unfortunately (and I'm not sure if it was the beer or the sun) his first throw to me missed the pocket of the mitt. Instead, the ball hit the heal of the glove (much like a foul tip- which has a tendency of accelerating the ball) and hit me right in the upper lip.

Jeez, that hurt! ! !

Gawd, that more than hurt! ! ! ! !

Walk it off...

Don't be a wuss.

Still, I trudged on and after about 20 minutes my brother was getting tired (well, we were both getting tired) and he started to lose control. Now I found myself in the "backstop" position, i.e., taking hits everywhere. Wrists, ankles, etc... My brother had sufficiently psyched himself out and had completely lost control.

Hey, it happens to everybody. Ask Trevor.

Today it's Tuesday. My shin is swollen, the lip has gone down, my wrists feel like James Caan's ankles in Misery.

Nothin' a bottle of Alleve won't cure.

My honor is intact and I am the Man!

Am I too old for this sh*t?