Baseball

When I was a kid, I was on a baseball team for exactly 1 week. In that time, I was encouraged to find another extra-curricular activity after beaning a pick-up truck with an errant throw during practice. So off to band camp I went.

Luca, on the other hand, combed through the deep recesses of his genetic pool to find the one active baseball gene in his system. He is the happiest member of the Valley Produce “Bombing Potatoes.”

Yes. The Bombing Potatoes. This is what happens when coaches let teams name themselves. I am proud to say Luca was the author. In one recent practice, his coach gathered the ream and said, “Okay. Last chance to rename the team. Any takers? Anyone at all? Anyone want to name the team something other than ‘Bombing Potatoes?’ Anyone?”

No casting agent could construct a more perfect collection of cuteness. Every one is more adorable than the last, with their little cleats and oversized mitts and their perfectly cowlicked hair.

Luca upped the cuteness ante by adding a black eye to his wardrobe.

According to Hamann Legend, Luca was playing pitcher in one of the countless games organized in our back yard. Grover poop is first base. Trouper poop is second. Grover poop is third. Also Grover poop is home. He gave his friend some helpful advice on batting and was rewarded for his instruction by a baseball in the eye.

He actually had the gall to be embarrassed by the giant purple and green and black splotch around his socket. We told him he was now the most intimidating and cutest player on the Bombing Potatoes.

My role on the Potatoes is official Social Anxiety Sufferer.