Like his old man, my son has been named ‘Catcher’ by his little-league coach.
He was given the team ‘cup’ yesterday to make it official.
We practiced with the cup in place so he wouldn’t waddle like a penguin on Opening Day.

My son’s big and strong and a tad awkward:
He dented a teammate’s head in practice while tagging him out.
He falls out of his catcher’s crouch sometimes like a Ninja Turtle with narcolepsy.

My son is also joyful and fun-loving:
He chatters with batters like Oprah to her guests.
He runs the bases slowly but with gusto.
When he strikes out, it’s somehow not the end of the world.

His coach calls him ‘Pudge’ after Carlton Fisk the great Red Sox catcher.
He draws a line behind home-plate and tells my son to
always crouch behind it or risk getting whacked with the bat.
He tells him to shout ‘Play Ball’ at the start of every inning.

Like his old man, my eight-year-old son is the ‘Catcher.’
He wears the tools of ignorance well.
He even keeps the cup on when he’s sleeping.
In case, he dreams of wild pitches.