Aaaaah! It’s that time of year again. I’m in training and I can’t wait for the season to begin. This is the year my boys finally reach my goals and make me proud. I’m working out every day. I’ve got to bulk up just to make sure I’m bigger than my kids coach in case I need to kick his ass for not making my boy the no. 1 pitcher on the team. I’ve been practicing for this all winter. Yelling at my three boys if they don’t tag up before leaving the dinner table. Making them go back down the stairs and start again if they don’t hustle all the way to the bathroom. If my wife misses a call and blames the boy who retaliated in a fight I shout, “Are you blind? How could you miss that? He hit him outside the strike zone!!!” I have to be prepared. Those 15 year old umpires need to know who’s in charge of the game. There is absolutely no way I’m going to let one of those punks keep me, uh, I mean my kids from the goals that I’ve set for them. Then there’s the equipment. Nothing but the best for my boys. I’ve spared no expense in helping my boys live out my lost dreams. My kids are so well equipped there’s major league players with my sons names on their gloves. I’ve also got to get my equipment ready. Team hat? Check! Team shirt? Check? Major league stat book? Check! Last but not least, bulletproof vest? Double check! Hey, you never know. Some of these little league parents can be real a-holes.
Self-proclaimed grand poobah of leisure, parapsychologist, author of several humorous suspense novels and one of the longest running blogs in the world, The Phil Factor. thephilfactor.com
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