OK, so not only did my oldest son turn 16 yesterday, but I watched my second child play in the greatest baseball game ever played.
Chris comes up to bat, bottom of the second inning, man on third and I believe one out.
He takes a ball, then a strike. The coach signals for him to lay down a bunt and bring in the runner from third.
Chris squares up on the next pitch and lays down a beautiful bunt which drops six inches in front of the plates and lays there.
The catcher is in a panic because now he has to scramble to grab and cleanly field the ball while he has a man charging in from third. If he hold the ball the runner goes back to third and they miss the out. He grabs the ball, sizes his throw and fires the ball to first and...
OVERTHROWS THE FIRST BASEMAN!
We go wild, our runner scores from third and Chris is safe at first and being waved on to second.
meanwhile, the first baseman is scrambling to chase down the wild throw and the right fielder is coming over to help. For whatever reason (I'm sure it is because they are only 9 and 10 year olds) the right fielder wasn't backing up the first baseman on the play.
My poor, poor slow son (who is showing surprising speed at this point) hits second and is rounding for third.
"Oh lord," I think to myself, "My poor little Christopher is going to get a triple out of this."
At this point I see the third base coach waving him home. Chris rounds third and goes charging for home with his head down and arms pumping.
Now I am in a panic. Members of my family are not built for speed. Durability, perhaps. Comfort, perhaps. Speed, Never! Yet here is my flesh and blood charging from third trying to beat out the play at home plate.
By this time the first baseman and right fielder have recovered the ball and fired it in to home plate. The catcher has stepped over to the first base side to field the throw and Chris does an ungainly slide into the third base side to score his sacrifice bunt, in-the-park RBI Homerun.
Sure beats watching the Texas Rangers.