I threw a baseball over the plate. The six-year-old Bug made connection and the ball flew over my head. He grinned. The T was now something from his past life. The four-year-old Worm looked envious. “Do you want to bat the ball?” I asked.
Her face brightened in the dusky early evening. She picked the bat up from the ground and stood facing me, the pitcher, more than the plate. The bat drooped over her shoulder. “Be careful, Grandma,” she cautioned, glancing down at her crotch. “Don’t hit me in the N-U-C-T-S.” Mind you, the Worm is a girl.
I tossed the ball. The swing was late, weak and not even close. The night would long be dark before she had hit the ball. I immediately made a switch in the roster. “Bug, come pitch for me,” I beckoned. I walked behind the plate and picked the wisp of the little girl up, adjusting her position. I grabbed her wrists covering the bat and helped support the weight.
Just as the ball left the Bug’s fingertips, he warned, “I’ve never pitched before.” The ball hit me square in the N-U-C-T-S.
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