I’m a simple man. Too simple, arguably. My life is all about family, church, and baseball. Gosh, I love baseball. It’s been my dream to have my son play in the majors ever since my dad told me he was disappointed that I never did. I just know that, through hard work and beratement, my boy will be the best pitcher since Dock Ellis. There’s only one problem: I gave him a quadruple dose of LSD but he still can’t find the goddamn strike zone.
I mean, he’s got a hell of an arm on him! It’s just that his aim is off. His coach said he needs to open both eyes but I say he needs to open his third eye. That should help him visualize the strike zone which will, in turn, help me visualize my dreams of cheering on my professional baseball player son while I spit Skoal into a cup of my father’s ashes.
But none of these dreams will come to fruition if my damn kid can’t unlock the secrets of the cosmos. Or get the ball through the swinging tire thing. Whichever comes first. We tried the tire for an hour but that got boring so I had to spice it up by dropping a little “Field of Dreams” if you catch my drift. If I slipped a tab or four into his Powerade, that’s nobody’s business but me, my boy, God, and the shadow people.
Before you judge me, we already tried steroids. It didn’t take though. My kid may not be afraid of the ball but he’s a real baby about needles.
I just want to be the best dad I can be to give him the best life possible. I only take such drastic measures because I fear we’re running out of training time. Hopefully, he’ll come into his own by the time they get rid of those damn batting tees.