Baseball

Jack had baseball tryouts Saturday. He will be playing regardless, but this was a chance for him to move up from Rookie, where he played last year, to Minors. So we loaded his gear into the car and off we went. It was kind of cool; he was clearly excited about the whole thing, even though we stressed it didn't matter which level he played at.

We checked in at the gym, threw our jackets on the stands. At first I thought I would be able to watch. Uh, no. Kids were shuttled into a smaller gym, given a number to stick on their shirt (#205 for Jack), and parents were sent into the hall. Then kids were sent into the bigger gym and the heavy doors slammed shut.

We stood in the hall, me and the other Dads. Maybe there was one Mom. At one point we heard a kid wailing, like he had taken a ball in the face. Not Jack! Whew. Maybe 20 minutes later, Jack came out. "I need my bat!" he said. It's in there, I said. He ran back in.

Evidently they all fielded a few popups, a few ground balls, made some throws, ran some bases, hit some pitches. I asked a friend who was helping out later on how Jack did. "jack did good," he said, both encouraging and noncommittal.

We headed out and Jack seemed happy with himself. Said he hit 4 of 5 "in play," which sounded promising. I told him I was proud of him whatever happened, said either level would be great. And meant it.