Monday, August 09, 2010
Headed Back to the Minors
The next night, as we went outside for 50 pitches (the new glove apparently came with draft papers for the Mama), the catcher got a bit sassy. He began to throw signals to the Mama pitcher, requesting knuckleballs, curveballs, sliders and the like. A few pitches were so bad as to require that the catcher come over to the mound for a little confab with the pitcher. He'd raise his glove over his mouth and speak words of instruction and encouragement. Then I'd get a pat on the shoulder from his new glove and he'd head back to home plate.
By night three, he was calling my pitches strikes or balls (more often the latter), announcing the pitch count, and explaining to the imaginary TV audience that the pitcher was known to have an attitude problem. When I disagreed, I was ejected from the game and replaced by my mysterious identical twin.
My twin also had an attitude problem. Eventually, a call to the bullpen was placed and I was sent down to the minors. Baseball ain't for sissies.