Strike Zones

It feels foreign to have a boy child, even after all these years. In some ways I feel like I will never get used to someone whose dresser top looks like this. Legos and snakeskins and rocks and baseball memorabilia.

The print is a gift from his Uncle Joe. It's Lou Gehrig and Babe Ruth. I look at their strong, pleasant faces every night when I tuck my son in and kiss him goodnight and it makes me thinkof the Guardian Angel prints, usually of that Heige Schutze painting, that so many parents hang in their children's rooms. My son has Lou and Babe watching over him.

It's his 9th birthday today. In some ways he seems both younger and older than that. The years go by so quickly now that I am surprised by the kids' maturity. My kids are each becoming their own people with their own interests. I used to have more influence over their interests. Tank loves baseball and it's something that I can support and encourage, but he has surpassed me with my limited baseball knowledge. The kid reads box scores and keeps track of the team standings.

A couple of years ago, his Poppy taught him to throw the ball against the wall to play catch with himself. He's done that for years. This spring I walked down the driveway and noticed that he had drawn a strike box in chalk on the house. He spends hours every week pitching balls against the house. The window there is my kitchen window and I spend a lot of hours every week listening to the ball hit the house.

It's his birthday today. I bought him a pitching net - you throw the ball against the net and it bounces back at you. Kind of like a wall, but without the thud that makes your mother's head hurt. And the strike zone is a little lower - Little League sized. I did feel the need to take a picture of the house pitching target. I have some video of him, too. I am glad to get him out of the driveway and off my house, but at the same time I will miss the thuds.