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We began dreading going up to the plate to hit. It
wasn’t fun. Batting had become something we just tried
to get through without embarrassing ourselves too
much.
Then Rett got an idea.
“What if the pitches we faced in games were slower
than the ones we face every day in practice?” Rett asked.
“That’s just the problem,” I said. “We don’t know any-
body who can pitch that fast to us. That’s why, in the
games, it’s so hard. The ball looks like an aspirin pill
coming in at 200 miles an hour.”
“I know we don’t know anyone who can throw a
baseball that fast,” said Rett. “But what if it wasn’t a
baseball?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
Just then Rett pulled from his pocket a little plastic
golf ball with holes in it. The kind our dads used to hit
in the backyard for golf practice.
“Get a bat,” Rett said.
I picked up a baseball bat and we walked out to the
park near Rett’s house. Rett went to the pitcher’s mound
but came in about three feet closer than usual. As I stood
at the plate, he fired the little golf ball past me as I
tried to swing at it.
“Ha ha!” Rett shouted. “That’s faster than anybody
you’ll face in little league! Let’s get going!”
We then took turns pitching to each other with this
bizarre little ball humming in at incredible speeds. The
little plastic ball was not only hilariously fast, but it
curved and dropped more sharply than any little
leaguer’s pitch could do.
By the time Rett and I played our next league game,
we were ready. The pitches looked like they were com-
ing in slow motion. Big white balloons.