“No thank you.” Said the little girl directly in front of me. She was holding a bat and standing, sort of, in the batter’s box. This was our T-Ball team’s first practice and the kids were very excited. Most of them, anyway.
“What do you mean, ‘No thank you’, Katherine?” I asked.
“No thank you. I don’t want to hit.” She said. “I’m four years old,” she continued.
Good, I thought, then you should be able to follow directions. I had temporarily forgotten everything I ever knew about four year olds.
“We need to practice hitting, Katherine, so you can get really good at it and have fun!” I said with all the mock enthusiasm I could muster on a windy 48-degree day in March while surrounded by four, five and six year olds swinging bats and throwing balls.
“No thank you, I’ll just sit over there.” She said, pointing at the dugout bench.
I looked over to Katherine’s mother for support but she was too busy snapping multiple pictures of what was sure to be the beginning of her adorable little angel’s stellar baseball career to recognize the insubordination. She probably thought we were discussing the finer points of hip-rotation and bat speed.
“Katherine, why don’t you want to hit?” I asked.
“I have two baby dolls in the car.” She said, as though there was any possible connection.
“That’s great!” I said, “Those baby dolls told me that they really want you to hit this ball!”
“No they didn’t.” she looked at me the way one might look at a dangerous idiot.
“Ok. If you don’t want to hit right now, you can get your glove and go play in the field. Go talk to Coach Frank.” I said, chuckling to myself. Coach Frank had never spoken with Katherine before. He probably still thought that T-Ball coaching was going to be easy. “You can practice hitting later.”
“No thank you.” She said. “ I don’t want to hurt it.”
“Hurt what?”
“The ball” she said.
“The ball?” I asked.
“I’m four years old. I have two babies in the …”
“Katherine” I interrupted, “you won’t hurt the ball. It’s just a baseball. You’re supposed to hit it. That’s what it’s for. You hit it. You catch it. You throw it. It’s a ball. You’ve played with balls before, haven’t you? Have you ever played with a ball before?”
“Not with this.” She said, closing her eyes and swinging the bat with all her might. Funny thing about four year olds. It might take them 10 or 20 swings to hit a baseball off of the tee, but if a male adult coach is in the vicinity, they will always miss the ball and score a direct hit on the coach’s personal male parts. Katherine’s bat was indeed headed straight for my personal male parts. I reacted with all of the speed and agility one would expect from an out of shape, thirty-nine year old T-Ball coach. “NO THANK YOU!” I yelled, jumping back and somehow forming my body in a shape similar to the letter “C”. The bat missed me by mere inches.
“Don’t ever swing the bat at the coaches!” I sputtered, trying to hide my growing fear of Katherine and her bat.
“Because it would hurt?” she asked with an evil innocence.
“Yes. It would hurt people, but not the ball. I promise. You just watch the other kids and you’ll see.” I took the bat from her and gave her a gentle nudge toward the dugout.
“Ok” she said, giving me a half trusting, half “you’re a dangerous idiot” look.
She strolled off to put her batting helmet back and get her glove and I called the next kid up to the tee. He looked ready. He had a shiny new bat, his own helmet and little T-Ball player sized batting gloves on his hands. He took his place in the batter’s box and began digging his brand new cleats into the dirt. “I’m gonna smash that ball.” He said.
“Great,” I said, “just don’t
tell Katherine.”